


Naive Bravo

by Goodspark



Series: Harry James Sirius Potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Harry Potter, Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Abusive Vernon Dursley, Albus Dumbledore Being an Idiot, Awesome Molly Weasley, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Dumbledore is not evil, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Harry Potter is a Good Friend, Harry Potter is a Sweetheart, Harry does Not sleep (what is this 'sleep'?), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insomniac Harry Potter, Little more broken Harry Potter, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Mentor Minerva McGonagall, Mentor Severus Snape, No one dies though!!!!!!, Not necessarily ‘good’ either, Pissed Minerva McGonagall, Rubeus Hagrid is a sweetheart, Rubeus Hagrid is not dumb, Severus Snape is Draco’s godfather, Slow Burn, Smart Harry, Sweet Fred & George Weasley, Vernon Dursley Being an Asshole, of the non romantic sort!!!!!, the twins are the best, when they want to be, who entrusted children with Albus Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 65,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23650303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodspark/pseuds/Goodspark
Summary: Harry Potter: Disgrace of a human being, gardener, cook, best friend of a certain shaggy-haired someone, and.... closet wizard?(Basically the first movie with some alterations because we’ve all seen how the movie plays out by this point.)(THIS STORY IS COMPLETE!)
Series: Harry James Sirius Potter [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923379
Comments: 246
Kudos: 599





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> :)

Chapter 1

  
Birthdays are a trivial endeavor in Harry Potter’s opinion.

  
A symbol of one’s harbinger into the world; wrought with mementos such as ~~icing disasters~~ cake, ~~sugar rush~~ ice cream, ~~stupid~~ arbitrary décor that’s more cumbersome to paste up then worth the effort to yank down within a matter of hours. Gifts showered upon a person for merely being. 

  
Call him bitter, but Harry didn’t much understand the fuss.

  
Of course, his own day of birth had never been especially spectacular. Another twenty four hours spent chambered in his cupboard-home. Another day performing tireless, eternal chores among the Dursley property. Another day of yelling, shrieking, of hits and strikes and the burn burn _burning_ kiss of a fiery-hot burner, the stinging smooch of a leather belt... Just another day being Harry _**Freak**_ Potter.

  
His cousin, Dudley’s, however? Was extravagant as Harry could imagine: A certifiable feast of all sizes and types and tastes of grease, grub, sweets, confections, cakes, sodas. _Happy birthday Duddlykins_! décor scouring every wall and surface from the kitchen, to the living area, all the way to the front door- taunting Harry through the slats of his cupboard. Presents of every size, shape, extensive number, entertainment possible. 

  
There’s also the grand endeavors off the property. Most Harry himself isn’t invited to attend, instead left to his own within his cramped sanctum, but there’s been a handful of exceptions. All holding painful memories, reminders.

  
When Dudley turned two, ('' _up with you, useless Boy!_ '')- Harry but five weeks behind- he demanded, in his squeaky-shrieking voice, they visit the ocean. If the drive, the sand, the scorch-dehydrating heat, and multitudes of people wasn't enough, Harry got swept beneath a towering wave to drown if not for an (admittedly sweet, female) lifeguard. Who “returned him to his surely worried-sick! family.”

  
He couldn’t walk, stand, sit without a prominent limp and grimace for a week after.

  
When Dudley turned four and a half, he threw himself to the floor kicking and screaming for them to visit a local theme park that'd recently opened. So, naturally, they visited the amusement park. Harry, surprisingly, in tow- albeit with strict instructions to behave if he wanted a meal for the next month. If not for the grumpy-kind male worker noticing him wandering about on his own, he would’ve been abandoned on the egg-fry pavement.

  
( _''Should've left you on the doorstep the first we saw you!_ '')

  
He didn’t eat for a month and a half afterwards. Alive ~~why~~ only by the sparse amount of water he could manage from the tap when permitted to use the toilet once a day.

  
And, the final and most excruciating time out of them all, when Dudley turned seven and desired to visit the zoo. Which turned into a conversation with a particularly amiable boa constrictor, whom escaped after Dudley mysteriously flounder-sprawls through the no-longer-there glass, which appeared once more when the pig of a boy managed to gain his footing inside the exhibit.

  
( _''Up. Get up! Now!''_

  
_''Wake up, cousin! We're going to the zoo!''_

  
_''Here he comes, the birthday boy!''_

  
_''Happy birthday, son.''_

  
_''Cook breakfast, Boy. And try not to burn anything.''_

  
_''Yes, Aunt Petunia.''_

  
_''I want everything to be perfect for my Dudley's special day!''_

  
_''Hurry up! Bring my coffee, Boy!''_

  
_''Yes, Uncle Vernon.'')_

  
He gained life-time scars,- mentally and physically- didn’t eat, wasn’t permitted outside his familiar cupboard for two months afterwards.

  
(Honestly, Harry himself isn’t even certain how he’s survived this long.)

  
So, yes, call him bitter. Melancholy. Or just bland sad.

  
This year, though, when he was set to turn a whole eleven years old, felt different. As if something laid in wait, preparing for the perfect time to strike.

  
It left an uncomfortable gurgle churning in his stomach alongside the long-acclimated hunger pains.

  
( _''Thirty six?! But last year I got thirty seven!''_ )

  
——...——

  
If being the Freak within his Aunt and Uncle’s house wasn't quite enough, he was viewed as the outcast within the entirety of his school years.

  
Not to say he hadn’t managed to gain friendships throughout his years of Primary School, it’s just that they lasted no more than a handful of days at utmost; All frightfully warded off by Dudley and his Band of Bullies.

  
There’s one not-person that he’d managed to gain as an ally, however, that’s stuck ever-loyal to him throughout a handful of years.

  
He was the only friend Harry had ever had that stayed. That managed to scare Dudley and his cronies away instead of the opposite. That provides him warmth, comfort, strength through all the rough and tumble eternal days of torment.

  
And if his particular amigo is a large, ebony, shaggy dog then that’s all to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter because of how itty-bitty these, unfortunately, are.

  
Chapter 2

  
Gardening waged a love/hate relationship within Harry.

  
It was, admittedly, a bit refreshing to be able to sink his digits into the rich soil and earth of Aunt Petunia's prim flowerbeds. And with his ~~lone efforts~~ assistance, theirs were by far the most visually-appealing floral arrangements on the whole of Privet Drive. Trimming the lush hedges also proved to be a splendid physiologist at the end of exhausting days. Let alone overall freeing to be embraced by the outside world, bidden to view with his own spectacles that it truly exists.

  
Intimately trimming each individual blade of grass, or snapping each individual branch of cushy bushes, however, weren't particularly enjoyable.

  
Otherwise, outdoor chores held Harry's top-most favorable chores.

  
Floral arrangements themselves were a rare beauty the brunette couldn't resist adoring against the hideous innards of the Dursley Home. They held such a blatant, unbidden beauty that he was unused to, not with the outdated décor, his horse-faced Aunt, walrus Uncle, pig cousin... It was the most refreshing part of his daily chores.

  
Especially the occasions a rogue snake would be slithering through. He'd held a great many fascinating, refreshing conversations with the serpents from all ranges of London. Though, unfortunately, they were few and far between after Aunt Petunia caught him, during a particularly intense moment of spying on the neighbors, hissing with a particularly amiable garden snake. She'd shrieked from within the viewpoint of the kitchen windows, trotted outside in true horse fashion, and drug him inside with verbal, due to any possible watching neighbors, verbatim. Needless to say, he received the verbal and physical lashing of the lifetime for his ''freakish mutterings''.

  
So, yes, he had to be on the far side of the house to be granted the opportunity to chatter with any snakes happening by. Even then, he has to remain on guard for his relatives, a gleeful Dudley in particular, when doing so. Fortunately, he could be rather observant if he so desired. It'd been ingrained in him throughout his lifetime living with the Dursley's, after all.

  
It was also, unfortunately, a bit uncomfortable performing his outdoor tasks. Observant or not, he was undeniably, vulnerably out in the open for all to view at their leisure. And in the particular suburbs of Privet Drive, with it's matching trim lawns and homes, people all of the ''normal''- excluding himself, of course- sort, it was practically commonplace for the neighbors to spy on one another. Aunt Petunia in particular took a mighty lascivious pleasure in scouting the local residents; Which evolved into partaking in gossip and verbal lashing with her husband when he returned home from work at a drill company Grunnings, of course.

  
The neighbors, however, were their own brand of Hell outside the Dursley's. Rumors ~~viciously~~ innocently spread by his three housemates caused them to gape at him at every possible opportunity. As if gaging just how truly incapable he's portrayed. _''Our nephew, a bit slow admittedly.''_ _'Ah, yes, the Boy. We don't much associate him with our dear Dudley. Bad influence, he is. May right well corrupt our poor innocent lad!''_ _'We've had the Boy instituted. Behavior problems, and all.'' ''A right spot of trouble, he is! I'd keep_ _leash about your children around him, I would. Can never be too careful around the Boy, hahah_!''

  
And maybe they're right. He is trouble, and freakish, and problematic... Who would ever want him? Especially around impressionable children.

  
It was still unnerving, though. To be stared at and viewed as if he's a rat trap balancing overhead, awaiting ample opportunity to _snap_. To be given lengthy, anxious space as if he's disease-ridden. It's nothing he's unused to, however. Being the outcast within his school. (With the except of his dear canine companion when he's able to visit.)

  
There is one woman a few houses down that's the only exception. ''Old Mrs Figg", she's called. A timorous older woman with a love for cats, and a particularly odd presence, for reasons unknown, and scent about her. She's, occasionally, the person Harry's charitably dumped upon the doorstep of when the Dursley's scamper off gleefully for a vacation, Dudley's holiday-viewed birth date, or whenever they feel.

  
For all her oddities, everyone has them, she's one of the few that Harry can say is in any way kind towards him. With her dozen kitty-cats- most of whom have either a strong opinion of amiability, or loathing, towards him- and constantly flustered-paranoid disposition.

  
Because, at the end of the day, who is he of all persons to judge?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Hope ya'll enjoy :)

Chapter 3

The letter came sudden and unexpected.

  
It was a particularly standard day when it happened. (Looking back on it, however, such thought is laughable.) Uncle Vernon was partaking in his morning newspaper. Aunt Petunia multitasking between griping waspishly at Harry over the speed of their breakfast, agreeing with her husband's grumblings over the foolish actions of the uncouth world, and blubbering over her _''sweet Duddlykins! Wasting away! Foolish, useless Boy, hurry up with the breakfast!_ '' Dudley utterly engrossed in whatever game is currently suiting his attention for the day.

  
Harry himself is peacefully, as much as perceivably possible, that is, immersed in the bacon and sausages _sizzle-sizzling_ in a shared pan laid out on the stove top. The slices of white bread tick-ticking away in the toaster. In deftly planning when the meats and toast would be cooked enough to timely plop eggs in the other awaiting skillet.  
Cooking is one of his more favored tasks of the day, he'd say. Right up there with gardening. It's its own liberal form of freedom interlaced with a control that he doesn't have in his own life. Unfortunately, however, it only serves to exacerbate the constant hunger gnawing away at his insides.

  
All throughout his meal-preparing, he pays hardly any mind to the griping from his Aunt and Uncle, the cooing over his cousin, the twinkling jingle dancing forth aggravatingly-loud from the slightly-older boy's gaming device. Long-bred, not all-the-time consciously, tuning the commotion out as he manages to eventually dish extravagant portions for his fellow two males, and an insignificant amount for the lone female. None for himself, of course.

  
As he's gathering and wiping away the limited mess caused by his trope about the stove, the unmistakable sound of the mail slit clanks from the front door. A mental note is sent reverberating throughout his cranium to retrieve it when able, it promising anything but good if he's to forget.

  
''Go and get the post, Boy.'' Aunt Petunia sneers, taking a delicate nibble out of a spoonful of eggs.

  
''Yes, Aunt Petunia.'' Harry mutters with his practically unused voice lowly, abidingly. Mess and ingredients cleared, he does just that, passing by the cupboard he calls home placed beneath the stairs.

  
''Acting smart, are you, Boy?'' Uncle Vernon bites between a chomp from his buffet-plate.

  
Harry wisely keeps his mouth clamped shut. Instead, he stoops to gather the scattering of envelopes dropped to the carpet.

  
An ounce of curiosity not-quite beaten out of him- ** _yet_** \- has him flipping swiftly through the letters as his feet retrace back towards the kitchen. It all happens in a matter of seconds, for if he's caught loitering or snooping, there'd be Mighty Hell to pay, but seems to play out as if eternal.

  
There's the atypical collection of dull bills, a card from his Uncle's atrocious sister, rubbish, catalogues that are disregarded immediately, etcetera. However, a particularly intriguing seal captures his eye at the latter of the stack.

  
The circle of wax holds an unfamiliar, spiraling-intricate crest. Above it, a duplicate, along with the title _Hogwarts_ , with a Latin spiel within a thin stream of banner below.  
Unfortunately, there's no time for him to learn the sender if he values his head remaining upon his shoulders, but he has a split second to stuff the envelope in the pocket of his oversized, hand-me-down jeans from Dudley before his Uncle has time to find his absence in any way suspicious.

  
''Took you long enough, Boy.'' Vernon sneers as Harry breaks passed the doorway into the living area that makes way towards the kitchen. Wordlessly, the younger lays the envelopes just beside the man's plate, cautious to dart away before his Uncle can deem him too close, or well within striking range. Silent as a mouse on socked feet over the linoleum, he takes up place at the window conveniently overlooking the entirety of the right-end of the neighborhood. Armed with a pitcher, he goes about watering the inside plants littered about the kitchen, back down the short hall, into the living area and about the front door. 

  
''Ah,'' his Uncle grunts disapprovingly, sifting through the paper and ink, "Marge is ill, ate a funny whelk.''

  
The sound of Petunia tittering about her sister-in-law follows the brunette as he tends to the greenery in the living room. Followed by Vernon grumbling over the rest of the stack. Harry himself finds that he's distracted, entranced, by the press of the envelope resting in the pocket of his overly-large trousers. It drives a hunger- not physically, for once- through him, bidding him to partake in learning its secrets. 

  
_Learning_. When was the last time that'd _truly_ occurred?

  
Ah, yes, the last time he provoked his Uncle.

  
Before he's aware of his own movements, the mostly-empty pitcher in his grasp is placed upon the coffee table so as to free his calloused digits. Unbidden, the letter is flipped so that the seal is facing his palms...

  
''Dad, look! Potter has a letter!''

  
A shock of icy terror trembles down Harry's spine at his cousin's slimy, high tone. Further instigated by the sight of the older boy in the doorway, device forgotten in the grasp of chunky digits in favor of staring smugly over his over-filled plate. It merely festers as the echoing _scraaapeee_ of chair legs rings violently through the quaint home.  
 _What happened to observant?!_

  
''Letter?' Uncle Vernon scoffs, though an undercurrent of fire is ignited in his beady eyes as he clears the doorway into the lounge area. The envelope is swiped viciously from his shaking grasp. ''Who'd be writing...'' 

  
The walrus of a man trails off as he regards first the unknown front of the paper, blood pressure visibly rising at every word. At the sight of the gleaming scarlet seal on the backside, however, it's only sheer terror of how worse it'd make it if Harry were to attempt escape that keeps him rooted in place.

  
''Dudley.'' It's more statement than question. ''Be so kind as to rejoin your mother at the breakfast table, would you.''

  
And just like that, being stared down by Hatred and Wrath rolled into one heavy-set man... 

  
Well, the details relating towards the volume of his two and a half weeks recovery period isn't for the faint of heart, let's say.

\--...--

_Two days later_

  
The hum of a drill vibrates through the alcove of Harry's cramped sanctum shrilly, stirring up dust and outdated cobwebs. It's accompanied by the mutters of an irritated Vernon Dursley as he works to cover the golden slot in the home's entrance way that allows for mail to slip inside. 

  
''No more mail through this mailbox.'' His Uncle's manically-gleeful voice grunts approvingly.

\--...--

''Have a lovely day at the office, dear.'' Petunia Evans Dursley's shrill voice echoes throughout the entranceway, pounding in Harry's ears in mockery through the grate of his cupboard. It's followed by a short shriek after a moment of pause. Along with a particular, savage ripping sound.

  
''Shoo! Go on! Ruddy pigeons.'' Vernon's voice grumps. ''You'll pay for this, Boy!''

  
 _ **Slam**_!

\--...--

Breakfast was an uncomfortable affair since the beginning of the letters. Even more so than typically.

  
After the first letter with the intriguing scarlet seal, with its ingrained crest and matching mark inked above the flap,- its image had been seared into his brain ever since he'd laid eyes on it- it's as though the sender is bound and determined, as much as he himself is, for Harry to read its contents.

  
What'd began as one single letter turned into two more the following day, which became four next, then six, then ten... By the second week mark, Harry had been beaten black, blue and purple so many times...

  
So many times, his sure concussion agrees heartily.

  
It's times like these that the young Potter truly questions how and why he's still alive. What with the only grain of sustenance being what limited scraps he can sequester away when no one's looking and occasional sips from the tap in the bathroom. With the lifetime of bruises, lacerations, surely incorrectly-healed bones... Why and how is he alive, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've found some form out of enjoyment out of this story!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the chapters get bigger.

Chapter 4

The letters continue.

  
Harry's not quite sure for how long, considering he's locked in his stuffy cupboard sixty percent of the time, the remaining forty percent of the time endlessly cooking and performing ever chore possible around the Dursley Home.

  
When outside his space, he'd caught his Uncle taking a certain malicious pleasure out of tossing envelopes with that damned scarlet seal into the fire place. He'd heard throughout vast hours of the day, no matter where he may be, the consonance of paper being ripped viciously. He'd been personally cracking through a cartoon of eggs one afternoon that he found, to his utter befuddlement, each had been filled with identical letters instead of a yellow-clear ooze. (His Aunt had been swift in stuffing them in the pot of water that'd been steadily boiling atop the stove. Along with leaving a nasty blot of purple that took three days to dwindle its pronounced swelling.)

  
Even his cousin had taken to the non-game of 'keep the Boy from reading the bloody letters at all costs!'. Of course, that was unsurprising considering it was similar enough to ~~Potter Torment~~ Harry Hunting from the same boy and his goons. It was still quite disheartening to have each letter that managed to sequester its way into his palms to be violently ripped from his grasp, followed by a damning _''mummy, mummy! Dad! Potter has a letter!'_ ''

  
By this point, Harry would be thrilled, elated even, to be disregarded outside on the lawn like in the past if he had the option. If only to escape the maddening house.  
Since when has Harry James Potter ever had an _option_ in anything before, though?

  
(Once in his yearly of Primary School, he was granted permission to choose between two books- that he later discovers he particularly adores- and ended up sobbing in the middle of the lesson. Needless to say, he was given the label of 'Problem Child' that was passed down to each of his lecturers from then on.)

  
That includes, but most definitely isn't limited to, the apparent reading and opening of a very persistent letter.

  
''Fine day, Sunday.'' Uncle Vernon drawls, mustache twitching in mimicry of a mouse, a manic gleam to his beady, glazed-over gaze. He's seated on the itchy-stiff couch. Beside him in a posh armchair, his wife eyes him wearily, idly smoothing away a non-existent wrinkle in her _darling son's_ state-of-the-art, spiffy School Attire for the Prim and Proper.

''In my opinion, best day of the week! And why is that, Dudley?'' 

  
''Because there's no post on Sunday's?'' Harry fills in in a light murmur when his cousin merely keeps his attention focused on the gaming device practically glued to his sausage digits. He's sure to move away swiftly after settling a plate of letter-less cookies and tea on the coffee table.

  
''Right you are, Boy!'' He exuberates wickedly, leaning forward in a roll to swoop in on a scone. ''No post on Sunday.'' He cackles. ''No blasted letters today! No, sir.''

  
Despite remaining understandably weary of the crazed man, Harry can't help but find his gaze drawn outside the curtain-clad window to Vernon's left at a distinct _flap-flapping_ , just in time to catch a shadow swoop by.

  
Drawn for reasons unknown, he paces over to the window while his Uncle drones, deranged, on about there being no letters delivered on that particular day. His Aunt too ensconced goggling at her spouse in concern. Dudley wrapped up in his device on the floor just in front of his mother, one hand freed to shovel cookies into his gob distantly.

  
Shifting the lacey curtains aside to gaze out the polished glass practically amounts to suicide on a good day, let alone one when his Uncle is particularly unhinged, but they're lifted to the side just enough for him to peer out before he properly realizes his own actions.

  
Owls, strangely enough, of all colors and assortments are scattered about the meticulously-trimmed yard, the blemish of a rogue bird bath lacking the latter, and his Uncle's car, amusingly enough. Green orbs blink in befuddled bemusement from behind broken spectacles.

  
''No, sir, not one blasted, miserable...'' His Uncle continues to drone behind him, only to be smacked in the cookie-hand. 

  
A low rumbling permeates the house as Harry turns to gander at the commotion, just in time catching sight of a haunting red seal attached to a crisp ivory envelope now splayed half-hazardously beside Vernon's arm on the couch.

  
The vibrating cacophony increases as milliseconds wear on, threatening to upend loose items about the quaint, perfectly-polished home as Harry and his bitter relatives gaze at the source of the commotion foolishly: The fireplace.

  
Abruptly, as if possessed, letters upon letters with that haunting scarlet emblem come pouring out of the heat source, scattering about the prim living space wildly.

  
''Make it stop, please!'' Dudley can distantly be heard through the ensuing chaos of hundreds of letters threatening to consume the living area. Along with his mother shrieking shrilly through the force of two hundred pounds of son abruptly filling space upon her brittle lap; His father, the closest and therefore in direct line of fire from the fire place, currently engaged in batting merciless letters aside.

  
For the first time in all his years in living on Privet Drive, Harry feels the corners of his cracked lips tug upwards at the corners.

  
A shred of Something feels him in the ensuing pandemonium. An unknown emotion that emboldens him just enough, as never before... His arms raise, partially shielded by raining paper and ink... Up... and up... until... finally...

  
The biting edge of tree byproduct flutters into his anticipating palm.

  
He makes a mad dash for the laughable sanctity of his cupboard, idling hoping a fool's wish that he'll be guarded by the onslaught during his escape.

  
'' _Boy!_ Give me that!'' Uncle Vernon shrills, fumbling close to his heels. 

  
Meaty palms seize the brunette about the upper torso bruisingly just as he reaches the door leading into his cupboard, freeing him from the press of the ground. 

  
''Give me that letter!'' 

  
Even with mail pouring in hectically from every nook, cranny, and crevice in the house, Harry- all of fifty pounds soaked to the bone- finds himself swiftly outgunned.

  
_'Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?_ ''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m currently on chapter 19. The reason updates are so erratic are because I need to eventually go back and add in elements I’ve forgotten and smack it upside the head with a dictionary and thesaurus. Apologies, again, for the slow updates.
> 
> Also, I’d just like to add something that’ll hopefully make the situation regarding Harry’s malnutrition a bit more realistic and understandable.
> 
> The reason he’s been able to survive so long with such little proper food or drink is due, even without him knowing, to his magic. It’s pretty well the only thing that’s kept him alive all these years. It doesn’t necessarily assist with his bodily injuries, but it’s enough to at least keep him alive. He will, unfortunately, still be stunted growth wise for the rest of his life though.
> 
> Hope that clears the air some. Apologies for neglecting to enunciate before now. And many thanks to rosaamarilla for kindly pointing out my neglect in explaining!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all.
> 
> So, it’s currently... two o’clock in the morning where I’m at. Also, I’m completely freaked out due to having found a bug in my bed. So, chapter.
> 
> (Could someone please send me Billy the Exterminator? Or a draught of sleeping potion?)

Chapter 5

It's with a pounding, reverberating, headache that Harry wakes up once more. He immediately wishes he hadn't.

  
Pains, aches, and wounds are the farthest thing from a stranger to the bespectacled boy. In all his years since infancy within the Dursley's Law, he's had bruising littered somewhere about his person on a daily, has scars from old and fresh lacerations, has had what seems like every bone in his body broken at least once. Has been emotionally, mentally, and physically fragmented in innumerable ways.

  
Now, at this moment, though?

  
He's just plain numb to it.

  
So numb,- concussed?- that it takes an admittedly worrying amount of time for him to realize just how silent the house is. Too quiet. Frighteningly quiet. It's **never** without noise in this abode.

  
For how lack-luster in body mass Aunt Petunia is, she certainly gallops about airily like the horse she shares resemblance with. Being that she's a stay at home mother for her _dear Duddlykins_. When not spending her every waking hour either cooing over her prodigy or smooching the very air about her walrus of a husband, she's spying on the neighbors with her giraffe of a neck. Also equating the fact Harry is sent with **explicit** instructions to the store thrice a week, well she's hardly ever found outside the home- minus their, at least, monthly holidays, of course.

  
Dudley, however, is constantly cranium-splittingly _loud_. He takes it as his own personal mission to throttle down the stairs one lifted-step-thump at a time _every time_ he lumbers down the staircase. Also equating his never-seizing, exaggerated chowing like the pig he is. Along with the elephant-stomp he parades when actually on his feet.

  
Vernon, with his job at Grunnings, a company that sales drills, is there the least of them all; However, could compete with his spawn for place as Loudest in the Housetm. Behaving just as Dudley in making himself as loud as possible for Harry's misfortune.

  
So, for it to be as pen-drop silent as it is is particularly unnerving. It's never proved to bode particularly well.

  
The urge to call out for his relatives rises up his throat momentarily, only to be immediately swallowed down mercilessly. What if they're baiting him, laying in wait for him to do just that? For him to use his neglected voice, only for them to reign Hellfire down upon him.

\--...--

Harry had never known his parents.

  
He didn't hold vast knowledge of them either. He'd learned his lesson in his ripe toddler years that it's ~~less painful~~ best not to mention hide nor hair of his mother or father, lest he incur his Aunt and Uncle's wrath and his cousin's sneers.

  
What he did know, however, was learned from a rare few days between cooking and chores when his aunt was feeling uncharacteristically sharing of her hated sister with her ' _'worthless_ , _good for nothing freak husband_ ; Potter,'' she'd spit. Either behind a glass of wine, and/or a veil of overwhelming loathing. His uncle never mentioned his parentals unless it was to share in his wife's ire of the _Dreaded Potters, such a mercy they're dead_. _Quite unfortunate the same couldn't be said about you,_ Boy.

  
He was given the information that they were killed in a car accident. That his father was intoxicated and led to their ultimate demise. That's it: No picture, no knowledge of their first name's, just spite for the two people who'd been the cause of Harry's bringing into the world. 

  
And, ultimately, his being a burden within the Dursley home. 

  
Not that he blamed his parents, no. Quite the opposite, in fact. Why would he? He couldn't find it within himself to place fault on his birth-cause. Even with his life-long... conditions. No, the blame rested solely on himself.

  
For being himself. For being such a burdensome, worthless _Freak_.

  
~~Why can't I just be normal?~~

\--...--

That night? morning? afternoon? evening? day? Harry dreams of a green-hot light and a reverberating scream that chills his tossing, turning, thrashing form to the core.   
Unbeknownst to him, in the sanctity of his mental horrors, his dampened features scrunch in discomfort, the reddened lightning-fashioned scar revealed through his shaggy dark locks pulses with pain.

\--...--

Oh, how Harry longed for the brilliance of nourishing sunlight.

  
In the matter of endless, unknown time since the lack of sound from the Dursley's,- he still doesn't dare make noise in fear of further punishment- he'd had a vast amount of time to ponder.

  
What time is it? Day? Week? Month? Year? Eternity slugs by, particularly worse than his typical locked-in punishments, when he's left to his own mind and the limited gap of his all-the-time-pitch-black cupboard- the grate on the door being shuddered entirely.

  
How long has he been in here? How long will he be in here?

  
Will he be granted use of the loo? He isn't certain peeing in the farthest, though most certainly not distanced in the least, corner is particularly healthy for him to ingest. Though, he himself isn't all-together healthy to begin with, he muses. Not like the rambunctious kids of his school.

  
And what of school? They were frequently notified of his absences during his cupboard punishments that '' _oh, the Boy's fallen ill.'' ''Indeed, we had to ship the problematic child to the institution. Mhm, yes, for troubled children.'' "The Boy had a stay in the hospital, I'm afraid. Tumbled down the stairs playing_ ,'' it'd be bitten out like particularly solidified cud, '' _with his dear cousin Dudley. Children, hahah!_ '' Just an over-abundance of falsities that the system glazed over out of disregard, or utter contempt over the pre-teen. Such is his life. It's not as though he has anyone that'll miss or worry over his absence.

  
Well, there's one particular individual who _might_. _**Might**_.

  
His dear furry partner. The shaggy, matted black dog he'd befriended out of an act of kindness.

  
Dudley and his gang had cornered Harry one day during recess at his favorite reading- when he was illegal able to smuggle novels outside for the free period- tree and were delivering a mighty wallop to his frail frame. Endlessly wounded and outgunned from the beginning, Harry was unable to do more than unconsciously assume the fetal position upon the damp Earth and sprouting's of rogue grass. That is, until his beloved canine companion seemingly melded out of the shadows cast from the towering tree; Growling fierce and frightening, yet enough to both ward off Dudley and his posse, and win over Harry's battered heart.

  
Once a week at the least, he would saunter over to Harry's secluded oasis, either timely beating Harry, or joining him not long after he'd plopped down at the base of the gnarly roots. Often times, he'd show furry face multiple times a week if time allowed. Would even escort him, as if acting as body guard, to Privet Drive if the brunette missed the bus- which happened ninety percent of the time, admittedly, due to deliberate interference from Dudley. Not the entire way, mind you, else his Aunt and Uncle would give litter to a bushel of kittens upon sight of the scruffy dog. He was in desperate need of nutrition and hygiene worse than even Harry!

  
Those were some of the best moments of Harry's life. Well, besides the exhilarating moments he's able to sneak out of the Dursley's.

  
Throughout his life, Harry had always known he was the '' _ **Freak**_!'' of the house, neighborhood, country, universe. There's moments of time when oddities would happen around him that couldn't logically be explained- such as the glass disappearing into thin air at the zoo on Dudley's seventh birthday, for example. However, on a particular lonely birthday years passed, he'd discovered a package on the cot serving as his bed in the sanctity of his cupboard.

  
It was nothing spectacular. Just an unmarked parcel at the foot of his mattress. Of unknown origin, and how it managed to sequester itself into his teensy room, it'd taken a bout of weary courage to even deign to open it. ~~What did he have to lose, anyway?~~

  
Inside, upon opening it, was a jumble of sleek cloth that glided through his fingertips, vastly different from the way his garments crunched and crumpled, stiff and limp, on his too-slight body. No, it was the single-most extravagant item to ever drape across his unworthy calloused digits. The most strange thing about the fabric, however, was when Harry looked down at the cloak drooped over his slight form. For once gifted with slats of thin light through the miraculously open grate of his door.

  
His body, vanished! Much resembling a particular pane of glass enclosing a Brazil-deprived boa constrictor. Freakish, indeed, it'd come in handy on multiple occasions for sneaking-out purposes to visit with Padfoot in the late-early hours of the night. Unfortunately few, discovery would mean certain death, as they were.

  
Now, wrapped up within the welcoming embrace of the invisibility cloak, Harry finds himself yearning for the amiable presence of his canine companion. His friend.

  
His Padfoot.

  
Little does he know, a certain somebody shares the same sentiments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This story was made from the idea of mixing events around and seeing how they’d alter things.
> 
> For example: The Invisibility Cloak.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6** _

Harry's beginning to suspect the Dursley's are not home.

  
In fact, he's fully confident of such fact.

Why?

  
Due to nightmare-caused fear and desperation and _a green-hot light and a reverberating scream that chills his tossing, turning, thrashing form to the core._

  
He'd called out in his sleep, to be blunt. Which **Did Not Stand** in this abode without retribution. So, yes, he's been abandoned.

  
He's not entirely certain if such is a positive or negative discovery.

  
He'd been left locked away inside his cupboard more times than he could ever hope to possibly count, with half of such instances including being stuffed inside his space.

  
With the weight of the oppressive darkness threatening to topple him mentally and physically, he'd say he's been in here for at least two weeks. Manageable? Remains to be seen. A record amount of time? Nowhere even remarkably _close._

  
The same thought as always when he finds himself in such a situation flickers, wavers, in and out, to and fro, reminiscent of a burning candle: To, or not to attempt escape?  
And then the reality of _unless I flay my own skin to the bone and whittle it down, I'm stuck in here._

  
It's not such a horribly morbid thought in the long run, really.

  
Mind, there has been those countless moments of the unexplainable around him: Cabinets he was about to rummage through swinging open. Dishes inexplicably becoming spotless at the mere turn of his back. Gardening tools he hadn't had the mind to gather at the time appearing without origin. Etcetera. Etcetera. But he didn't even dare entertain the thought of the door to his cupboard swinging open in resemblance to a sort of freedom ~~where would he even go if such were to happen? Go frolic and endure with Padfoot in the woods somewhere?~~

  
(Hmm...)

  
He'd positively _dreamed_ of Padfoot, for who else would it be if not his dreaded Aunt or Uncle, bestowing upon him the refreshing fragrance of unadulterated _freedom_. Or even Miss Figg would do, for that matter. Not that the frazzled woman would, most likely, or even _entertain_ the thought- let alone have a semblance of clue what to do if she were to do such a thing, poor woman.

  
So, he's entrapped inside his cramped room; As per the norm.

**\--...--**

  
It'd never been a fear of Harry's when it came to the possibility of intruders.

  
Yes, the very idea is particularly terrifying for most, but not him. No; Not really.

  
Why would he be? Indeed, he's the most vulnerable in the house when equating the moments he's locked in his cupboard, what with the other residents' rooms being upstairs. Also that he's pathetically thin and frail and couldn't possibly even entertain the thought of defending himself if he so desired- Dudley and posse's Harry Hunts were clue enough in that regard.

  
It was just not something that struck him as frightful, personally. What would happen? Someone break in and discover his conditions? They wouldn't care. Someone enter and take him away? He could only fruitlessly dream. Be held at weapon-point? At this point in his life, he can't promise he wouldn't freely bare his neck to them in sacrifice.

  
He just didn't have it within him to particularly care. Hell, he didn't have anything in him. 

  
Why how is he still alive, truly.

  
There's a distinctly raucous _**thud thud thud**_ on the front door that most definitely doesn't belong to the posh digits of the Dursley's or any surrounding neighbors. And the only people that deign to enter the prim yard are the mail carrier, Aunt Marge, or a dim new ~~fresh meat~~ neighbor.

  
Heedless on want to do, Harry does all he can: Lay there beneath the incline of the staircase with the blackness, dust, and cobwebs as the thunderous knocking and an unfamiliar voice rumble mere feet away.

  
_'''Ello, any'ne here?''_

_\--…--_

Rubeus Hagrid couldn't claim his life ever being so eventful.

  
Well, that may be a bit of a stretch,- anyone and thing even remotely related to Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry has definite moments of craze- but the sentiment remains.

  
He couldn't much say that it was common occurrence for Professor McGonagall to hail him, bidding his presence in her office in the castle. Or, especially, receiving request to personally deliver a letter to an upcoming First Year student.

  
''I'm terribly sorry for the summons, Hagrid. Especially as sporadically as this.'' The stern woman apologizes, poised as ever from her vantage point behind the rich maple of her desk that the man before her had carved personally decades prior. There's a definite unease laced within her tone and features. ''Tea?'' She offers graciously.

  
'''Tis no problem, Professor! T'was merely edging the border of the Forest.'' The burly man assures, shifting in place in the over-large chair the Deputy Headmistress must have enlarged to encompass his vast form, thoughtful as she is. ''Yes, please, I could go for a cuppa.''

  
''I regret to inform you that this isn't a social encounter, I'm afraid.'' The Transfiguration teacher announces gravely. There's a distinct worrisome-exhaustion haunting the edges of her gaze, drooping beneath heavily. Two cups of tea _vop_ into existence on the desk at an expert twitch of her wand.

  
''Ah'm all ears, Professor.'' The half-giant assures amiably. Though, a bout of weariness floats in his abdomen with steady foreboding.

  
''Normally, I'd not bother you with such an unusual request, but I'm afraid this particular task is quite... sensitive. It pertains to Lily and James Potter's son, Harry.''

  
Hagrid only just manages to not send a grand stream of tepid liquid spraying in the witch's face, or swallow it down through the heady lump clogging his throat.

  
''Wha' of him? Is he alrigh'?!'' Hagrid sputters in a panic, horrid thoughts immediately plundering his thought process, pounding a hearty fist against his sternum.

  
''That would be the nature of my summons, I'm afraid.'' The woman elaborates. ''I'm uncertain of his wellbeing. You see, countless letters regarding his acceptance into the school have been sent to the boy, but none have been opened. I was hoping you could possibly visit Privet Drive...'' 

  
''Righ' on it, Professor McGonagall!'' Hagrid assures, shooting out of his seat in eagerness. There's a deafening _bang_ as his chair is sent skidding backwards. An apologetic beard-grin is sheepishly offered at the prim woman's raised brow. There's a faint hint of amusement that crosses her features, concealed once more nigh-immediately. The giant adjusts his seat back upright, settling back into it pensively. Minerva leans forward over the desk, voice lowering.

  
''I must impress upon you the significance of your visiting the boy. After all, who else would Professor Dumbledore entrust with such a mission, if he were here.'' She states cryptically. Hagrid nods, understanding immediately. 

  
''Course, Professor. Dumbledore is a great man, a great man. Ah'm sure he'd agree.'' A silent moment of eye contact is shared; Before Rubeus rises to his impressive height once more. ''Ah'll check on our young Harry.'' He vows.

  
''Thank you, Hagrid.'' The professor inclines her heads graciously, rising with the man. ''Here,'' a First Year's letter is laid into his broad palm, ''should you need it.''

  
His frizzy head dips in thanks. ''Best be off then.'' 

  
''Indeed.''

\--...--

''Any particular reason for sending dear Hagrid to check on the Potter boy?''

  
''You know as well as I, Severus, just the sort of danger that clings to the Potter line. His life in particular.''

  
"Hmph. Indeed.''

  
''Hagrid is a loyal, reliable source. You should know that better than anyone, Severus.''

  
''..Indeed.''

\--...--

'''Ello, any'ne here?''

  
'''Ello?''

  
A deep frown creases Hagrid's bushy features when there's no semblance of answer from within the prim, proper, and overly-polished abode. The half-giant continues to disregard the open gaping-stares of what seems like the entirety of Privet Drive at his broad back. 

  
A thick fist rises to knock again, pausing when there's a ruffle off to his right. Concealed digits clench around the handle of the umbrella within his coat. He blinks, bemused and slightly startled at a pair of shrewd gray orbs staring up at him.

  
''Well hullo there, old fella.'' Rubeus murmurs in bemused greeting down at the grimy, ebony canine taking up position just on the border of the shadows of the finely-trimmed hedges resting in the three foot gap between the next house over. He tilts his head to the side, scrutinizing the jaded dog's ragged appearance, the bones clearly-protruding through the hound's matted fur. Did the Dursley's have a pet? If Professor McGonagall's words a decade passed were any consolation, and the pristine surrounding conditions, they didn't seem like the sort. Especially this critter in particular.

  
_(''Albus, do you really think it's safe, leaving him with these people? I've watched them all day. They're the worst sort of Muggles imaginable. They really are...'')_

  
'''Ou lost there?''

  
To the burly man's amusement, the dog seemingly huffs, trailing out of the thin shadows. Hagrid watches as the animal approaches the door, seemingly reluctant to be in such close proximity with him, and plops down in the limited gap between the man and the door. A grimy paw lifts after a shared moment of eye contact, clawing at the surface.

  
''I'll take that as a 'no' then.'' He mutters to himself. ''Lookin' for young Harry as well, are ya?'' To his fascination, the dog's shaggy head, topped with floppy ears, dips in an imitation of a nod. ''Hmm. Le's see he'e...'' 

  
A subtle glance is cast over one thick shoulder to confirm that, yes, the entirety of Privet Drive is still steadily, openly gawking at his, and now the revealed canine, form. Fortunately, he's broad enough to conceal the door, however; Which he uses to his advantage with a nonchalant dip of the tip of his umbrella. 

  
The door swings open easily, the dog practically apparating inside, nose flared in anticipation of scents. Hagrid opts to follow the capable tracker, carefully sealing the doorway behind him. They'd have to be swift, he muses, in the event of the Muggle enforcements being hailed at the sight of a towering, strange man in their prim neighborhood.

  
''Whatchu find, thare, boy?'' Rubeus rumbles as the dog halts mere feet away from the entrance, nose practically shoved in the centimeter gap of, to his confusion, a cupboard beneath the stairs. An uneasy feeling slithers through his bones, into his core. A bark answers him, the inky form beginning to paw restlessly at the door, beneath a shuttered set of slats. 

  
''Ye might want ta clear way, fella. So's I can open it.''

  
Mightily reluctant, the hound does so, stepping just to the side. With another flick of the umbrella, the door creaks open eerily. The pooch immediately slips inside, leaving only just enough gap for Hagrid to peer inside. He immediately wishes he hadn't.

  
The scent of rancid urine swiftly penetrates his nostrils with the swish of the door. Beneath the eager form of the wagging dog, however, is a pitiful sight.

  
There's a boy, only just distinguishable beneath a dingy layer of half-hazard items of baggy clothing, curled up inside; Currently receiving layers and layers of concerned slobbering from the dog straddled over his slight form. Hagrid only just manages to detect a half-choked sob of ''Padfoot?'' from a hoarse voice through the mutt's pitiful whines.

  
Hagrid only has a moment or two to regard the cramped space hardly fitting the two, let alone one, growing boy. It's shabby interior, with its teensy cot, fragments of clothing, and dry-rotting farthest, though by no stretch _far_ in the least, corner which he deducts must be the source of the smell. Only just enough time to regard the contents, before of pair of eerily familiar green orbs gaze out at him in a veiled form of fear. _Lily Potter_ green eyes...

  
'' _Harry_?''

\--...--

Harry remains firm in his belief that he has a vast quantity of other things to fear than an intruder.

  
That is, until this particular unknown man ~~**_who knows his name_ **~~ manages to pick the lock on both the front entranceway of the Dursley home, and, for whatever reason, the door to his cupboard. Through the blinding influx of withdrawn light, and the pin of the worried canine steadily licking, sniffing, snuffling and nosing at his curled form, he's just able to view a lack-lustered visage of a _monstrous_ form of a man. Of whom sends a trickle of terror down his spinal cord.

  
The only remotely 'positive' thing in regards for the adolescent's sheer terror towards his Uncle, is the fact that he's not an all-together particularly large man at a mere 5'10. Round, about the abdomen and chin so as to delete a semblance of neck area, yes, but not particularly tall or burly. Not neglecting the fact he fears the man's sausage fists and broad form that dwarfs his own- not that that's remotely difficult, admittedly. The same can be said for Dudley. Over-gorged, indeed, but not particularly towering in the long run. And Aunt Petunia, tall for a woman at 5'8, is pathetically thin from neglectful eating habits. (Not to say that her grip is any less yielding, mind.)

  
This unknown stranger peering down at him with an, expression of... concern?, an expression he can't decipher from his years of experience on this Earth, however, fills in the frightful gaps the Dursley's aren't: Colossal in height, width, and sheer _size_ alone. He's the single-most gargantuan person Harry has _ever_ met. Seen.

  
Padfoot's distressed whines at his battered body, he'd always managed to detect every ailment of the ebony-haired boy's somehow, and his comforting form are the only things keeping the young Potter's breathing from hitching into the upwards spiral of a panic attack. As it is, however, he's in no way calm; Even with his friend's utter disregard of the man- he'd have brought even the giant down with his razor teeth alone if he'd regarded him as a threat of any form. No, calm was an unknown entity in his repertoire.

  
'' _Harry_?''

  
Aforementioned boy tenses up at the sound of his name from such a deep, unfamiliar voice. Or any voice, really. It never bodes particularly well in his experience. He doesn't dare offer voice- mangled as it is from lack of use, in any case- to the recognition in the man's tone.

  
''T'is a mightily peculiar place ta be, gotta say. Would ya mind steppin' out, by any chance? Feel mighty tall like this, ya see.''

  
Harry blinks, baffled, up at the earnest man's visible discomfort at standing tall in the open hallway. However hesitant he may be, the amiability in the man's voice, coupled with Padfoot's encouraging nudges, the adolescent opts to settle into an upright position slowly, wary of doing such a thing after so long of remaining stationary. Pins, needles, and agony flares up his entire form, but it's ignored easily by experience. The canine looming above him backs outside the shabby room, though offers guidance the entire way until he's able to rise onto shaky feet. The dog is kind enough to offer himself as support for the boy.

  
''Mighty thanks!'' Hagrid grins through his ravine of facial hair. He backs closer towards the entranceway into the house to allow the weary child some space. He's not naïve as to not be aware his lumbering form is particularly imposing.

  
''Rubeus Hagrid,'' the half-giant offers, though carefully doesn't extend his oversized palm, after a moment of silence. ''Keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts. Course,'' he tilts his head to the side, a bit searchingly, ''you'll know all about Hogwarts.''

  
Harry blinks, head tilting to the side in bemusement. Hogwarts? Like on the...

  
''Oh!'' Hagrid exclaims in epiphany, causing the young Potter to jump in fright. The elder male apologies immediately, profusely, at startling the poor boy so. Calloused digits clench a fist-full of fur as the stranger delves into the sheer volume of pockets of his robes. ''Got it in here somewhere... Ah! Here ya are.''

  
Instead of offering the item engulfed in his fist, Rubeus instead opts to extend the parchment to Padfoot; Who then raises it, carefully placed between his front teeth, to his human. 

  
Harry accepts it, mostly out of faint curiosity, immediately coming face to face with a familiar scarlet seal. He tenses automatically, irrationally anticipating the stranger to snatch the envelope from his grasp, but it never comes. Hands shaking ever so slightly, he turns the paper, coming face to face with a pleasant green scrawl.  
  
**Mr. H Potter**  
**The Cupboard under the Stairs**  
**4 Privet Drive.**  
**Little Whinging**  
**Surrey**

''Well, go on ahead. Open it.'' Hagrid grins encouragingly.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF**

**WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**

**Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore**  
**(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme**  
**Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)**

  
_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_  
_Deputy Headmistress_

''Now, ah know this 's sudden, an' Ah have a lot ta explain, but ah'd appreciate it if we could poss'bly continue somewhere's else. I reckon the neighbors called me in, you see.'' Hagrid explains, casting a nervous glance at the front door. As though he can see the neighbors scampering about in a flurry of _'strange man! Strange man! Hail the police!''_ For all Harry knows, he might very well be capable of such a thing.

  
''Ya can bring yar dog, course.'' The man adds, angling closer towards the door. He spins just enough to glance over one thick shoulder. '''Less you'd like to stay.'' He casts a dissatisfied glance at the still open cupboard.

  
A whirl of emotions form a hurricane within Harry at the offer. No, he doesn't trust _anyone_ , let alone the man, but no doubt enforcements had indeed been hailed and were prepared to swerve into the Dursley's open driveway. So, the question remained: To go with the stranger with the answers to the letter- _letters._ Or stay in the empty Dursley home, where they'd surely return to continue Vernon's task. Where they would hear of the stranger that invaded their home, would gather word about the grimy dog that moseyed over their polished flooring...

  
What did he have to lose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not British AT ALL, so if my attempts at their vernacular is horrible, please feel free to tell me or assist! But be nice please, I'm fragile.
> 
> Fun fact: I finished this story last night! Now, on to revisions....


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. This is my third time attempting to post this freaking chapter. I'll try to post another soon- so long as I don't chuck my laptop over the hill.
> 
> HARRY POTTER, HIS MARVELOUS WORLD, AND FRIENDS, DO NOT IN ANY WAY BELONG TO ME; I don't have that sort of luck. Dialogue (and instances) are from the Internet, the movie, and book (which I haven't read, fair warning.) I'm just taking them for a joy ride. Please don't sue, I'm broke.

_**Chapter 7** _

Harry Potter couldn't believe it.

  
He's not naïve. There's no such thing as an utterly black and white world; There's always those gray areas in between.

  
However, he'd have never anticipated _this_ being within the mid-boundary of ebony and ivory. That a stranger- one 'Rubeus Hagrid'- would appear, rush him far away from Privet Drive, through London, into 'Diagon Alley'. Which, admittedly, is the single most _wicked_ place he'd ever had the fortune of laying bespectacled eye on.

  
Now, seated in a far, out-of-sight table in the 'Leaky Cauldron', Harry's overflowing mind threatens to leak out of his ears in a horrid display of anxiety at the sheer volume of information that'd been unloaded upon him by the massive man seated a comfortable distance across the table from him. At his feet, Padfoot nudges his grimy, furry head into his palm in supporting comfort.

  
''I'm a wizard.'' He blurts. 

  
''And a thumping good one at that, I'd wager. Once you train up a little.'' Hagrid hums in agreement, shaggy head dipping in a nod between a sip of tea. A flurry of panic latches onto the younger.

  
''No... I can't be-.'' He flounders, terror ramping upwards, breath escaping laboriously. ('' _Should've left you on the doorstep the first we saw you!'' ''Freakish Boy!_ ') ''I'm just... Harry.'' ~~_**Freak!**_~~ He insists desperately.

  
''Well, just Harry.'' Hagrid states as if the very notion is ludicrous. Did ya eva make somethin' happen? Anythin' you couldn' explain when you were angry or scared?'' _That would take actual emotions._

  
''Ah.'' The large man hums, mistaking his pensive silence.

  
''But, sir...''

  
''None of that 'sir' mumbo now, Harry.'' Hagrid waves him off airily.

  
''But, Hagrid.'' He corrects, earning a pleased nod. The older nudges Harry's untouched glass of perspiring water and bowl of porridge closer in bidding. ''I can't be a- a wizard. My parents. They weren't wizards.''

  
''Ladies are 'fered as witches.'' Hagrid corrects gently. Harry mumbles out a jumble of apologies. He's waved off, instead regarded with a critical, accessing look. A spike of nervousness, not entirely fear to his relief, slithers down Harry's spine at the look. This isn't Vernon or Petunia, he scolds himself. This man had, thus far, proven himself to be genuine. Which is a vast quantity more than he would ever expect, or even ask for.

  
Besides, if not his in-bred senses, then Padfoot wouldn't be lightly dozing with his fuzzy head in his lap in a dark corner of a pub and inn for witches and wizards if he didn't trust the man at least by a margarine.

  
''Harry.'' His head carefully snaps down respectfully to the table top just before where the man is seated at the address. ''What do ya know 'bout yer parents?'' Harry pauses, honestly considering.

  
''Not a lot.'' He admits softly. ''That they died in a car crash...''

  
''A car crash?!'' Hagrid practically thunders. The tea cup clenched in his fist threatens to shatter at the sheer force of the grip of his monstrous digits. Harry involuntarily flinches away from the volume.

  
''Sorry.'' Hagrid composes himself, guilt immediately clouding his features. The ceramic in his grip is placed gingerly on the table. He clears his throat. ''That wasn'... Tha' was towards them Muggles- non-magic folk,'' he elaborates, ''ya live with. A _car crash_.'' He spits as if a curse. ''A car crash kill James and Lily Potter... An outrage. A scandal...'' He mutters darkly to himself. Spotting Harry's hunched form still regarding the table, he's swift to amend. ''Sorry, Harry. 'M not sure if I'm tha righ' one ta tell ya, Harry.''

  
The adolescent nods in understanding. ''Perhaps some other time?'' He offers. Immediately, the urge to smack himself at his foolishness arises. It's only Padfoot's pleasant weight, and his definite reaction if he were to do such, that stalls him from doing such.

  
'''M sorry, Harry.'' Hagrid states mournfully. The brunette blinks, startled. _No_ adult ever apologizes to _him_ , let alone on multiple instances. ''Ah promise, soon as Ah, or some'ne else, can, yah'll know the full story. A'ight?''

  
Harry nods. It's more than fair. _Much_ more than fair.

\--...--

  
After Hagrid manages to convince him to eat a couple, though tepid, bites of porridge,- the behemoth of a man has a surprisingly mighty-convincing set of puppy eyes- they set off as an interesting trio through the streets of Diagon Alley; A towering man seen above all others strolling the cramped streetway. A ragged boy, though he'd been granted opportunity to change and freshen up a bit in the Leaky Cauldron's loo- just where aforementioned clothing had appeared from remains to be seen; Harry suspects from one of the inn workers. And a shabby, though no less enthusiastic, ebony dog.

  
''Mighty fine fella ya go' there.'' Hagrid comments, watching in amusement as the canine's tail continues to wag throughout their trek through the cramped throng of people, which parts easily at the man's considerable girth. Harry nods in agreement. He'd never seen his friend so joyful; It's refreshing. And quashes a bit of the anxiety festering within his sternum at the volume of pedestrians, exotic storefronts, and overall just **volume** in general. '''S his name?''

  
''Padfoot.''

  
''Ah.'' The half-giant inclines his head. ''Fine name fer a fine c'mpanion.''

  
He couldn't agree more. Though, the designation hadn't been of his own design. No, during the early days of their meeting, Harry had been seated, back resting against the heady trunk of his favored tree on the school's playground, musing aloud over potential name's; Much to the hound's blatant amusement. Until, finally, the dog decided to take apparent pity on him and processed to rouse the boy into an involved game of charades. Four hours divided between an equal amount days, and one dictionary later, Harry had pieced the pooch's designation together with his then new-found friend's assistance.

  
Even the pre-teen had to admit, even through the sheer volume of fondness he holds for his shaggy companion, it can be a bit unnerving just how brilliant the dog is.  
He wouldn't have it any other way.

  
''Smart feller.'' Hagrid comments, confirming his sentiments. 

  
They continue their steady trot through the belly of Diagon Alley, Harry regarding the fascinating store-fronts lining either side out of his peripheral, until they reach a particular building of half-hazard support at a glance. To his further wonder, a sublime dragon rests at the top, jaws agape in a frozen, mighty roar.

  
''Gringotts, the Wizard Bank.'' Hagrid explains from his left. ''T'ain't no place safer. 'Cept perhaps Hogwarts. Reckon we getcha some money fer now, 'n come back later ta get yer school things.''

  
The further they approach Gringotts, the more Harry's nerves flare. It's only hampered when Padfoot takes up seeming-guard at the base of the stairs leading into the towering building. The oversized dog wouldn't be permitted entrance, undoubtedly. The only reason he'd managed at the Leaky Cauldron is due to a bit of artful measure in the form of Harry's Father's Invisibility Cloak- one of the bare few items the pre-teen had took with him from the Dursley abode. At the boy's hesitance, the canine nuzzles into the younger's legs encouragingly. As if to reassure _''I'll be right here when you retur_ n.'' It's just enough, combined with Hagrid's wordless reassurance, to guide him into the astonishing bank.

  
Immediately, his view is occupied by a flurry of motion. People walking about, stepping up to the division between themselves and... long-eared creatures with withered features, offering gruff service. Aforementioned creatures traverse this way and that, not paying either himself nor Hagrid any acknowledgement. Even though the man easily towers over each of them by a vast number of feet.

  
''Figure ya migh' want some weight in ya pockets.'' Hagrid explains, startling him out of his wide-eyed reverie. 

  
Harry nods in thankful understanding. It's an offer of support. Of freedom for Harry to have the means to declare his own fate, in a round-about manor of speaking. Gratitude swirls with the youngster at the foresight.

\--...--

  
Some thirty minutes later finds them approaching Hogwarts. A bit rumpled and nauseated from the swift ride down to the late Potters' vault, now Harry's to his great astounding. They travel by a means Hagrid had refers to as 'flooing'. Which is basically stepping into the Leaky Cauldron's chimney, tossing a fist-full of powder at their feet, and clearly stating their destination, before vanishing in a flare of green flames.

  
''Say it clearly, I warn ya, Harry. No tellin' where could end up.'' Hagrid informs sagely. The younger takes understanding that such advice is no doubt from past experience.

  
''I trust your delivery was a success then, Hagrid.'' A serene, wise voice greets them upon stepping out from the chimney. Aforementioned man, somehow less consumed by soot than Harry, grins impishly at a composed woman seated at a polished desk. Sleek green robes adorn her, chestnut hair pinned in a painfully-tight bun at the back of her scalp. Bony fingers are threaded together atop the wood-grain. An aura of no-nonsense, poise, sophistication, and strength surrounds the wo- er, witch.

  
Harry steps down from the heat source so Hagrid has chance to lumber out from behind him. Padfoot, grimy ebony coat now peppered in dustings of gray-black, hops down as well, taking up position just in front of the boy's knees with a light sneeze. Unconsciously, the raven-haired boy's hand extends to lay atop the hound's neck, where a collar would be clasped. 

  
A thin eyebrow is raised at the sight of the dog.

  
''Course, Professor. There was a slight, er...'' Hagrid casts a subtle glance at the young Potter, digits twitching at his side as if controlling the urge to reach out and dust away the powder now coating Harry from head to toe. A swell of gratitude swells within the adolescent at the fact the half-giant allows him a semblance of privacy.

  
''I see.'' The elder witch inclines her head. An analytical gaze is swept up and down Harry's slight, soot-covered form. A tick enters her expression, before evening out before the younger has moment to catch it.

  
''Oh!'' Hagrid exclaims in realization, a mighty palm extends accordingly between them. ''Harry, this is Professor McGonagall. She'll be yer Transfigurations teacher. Professor,'' he introduces needlessly. ''Harry Potter.''

  
''Mr. Potter.'' The slightest of upturns tilts the corner of the stoic woman's lips. ''A pleasure to meet you.''

  
''The pleasure's all mine, Professor.'' Harry responds politely, quietly, though makes no move to embrace the witch's palm. She makes no gesture to extend it.

  
''I'm certain you're curious as to the nature of Hagrid and yourself's visit?'' She more states than inquires. His head, cast respectfully down at the woman's enfolded digits, dips in a short, hesitant nod. A look is shared, unnoticed, above his messy head. Padfoot nudges closer to his surrogate owner in reassurance, nuzzling faithfully into his hand.

  
''Well,'' the lecturer begins, ''I was admittedly a bit worried when you seemed to receive your First Year letters, Mr. Potter, but did not open them.'' She phrases carefully. There's no demand or prodding in her tone for him to explain, merely truth. Despite that fact, Harry finds himself confused by it all the same. _No demand_ , unheard of! ''But you've had chance now to read over its contents, I take it?''

  
''Yes, Professor, ma'am.'' He murmurs, ever-cautious to keep his gaze lowered. As such, he misses the fire that alights within the woman's sharp eyes. She offers a shrewd look in Hagrid's direction. A silent exchange passes between them.

  
''Well, it seems we have two options here, Mr. Potter.'' She drawls. Harry stiffens subtly. ''At your choosing, you may stay in the castle with either myself, or accompany Hagrid just across the grounds, until the start of term. Providing you wish to learn of our world, considering present situations. The decision is yours to make, Mr. Potter.''

  
Distantly, Harry is aware that the decision had been made when he'd recklessly decided to follow a, now not entirely, stranger. However, he still takes a moment to regard the options- _a_ _ctual_ **options**!- laid out before him. The steady presence of Padfoot ever-faithfully at his feet, the authenticity he'd been shown, this admittedly intimidating woman that is no-less granting him freedom over his choices...

  
He makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! :)
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH! to everyone who has read this story, left kudos, commented... Just thank you!!! :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?! Two chapters in as many days?? This can't be me!

_**Chapter 8** _

  
''Ah reckon we c'n getch yer school list tomorra. Figure yer ready ta getcha some sleep.'' Hagrid explains as they traverse the torch-lit grass leading to the half-giant's home. Night had since fallen during their time in the castle, leaving Harry stumbling along after the great shadow of the man, and Padfoot's guiding presence. 

  
The Dursley's had never shown any acknowledgement to his impaired sight, minus their reluctant purchase of his spectacles mid-year of grade two of Primary School- only due to his teacher's frustration at his being unable to follow their lessons. Even then, it was all his responsibility what happened to his glasses. So, needless to say, they were shambled together with bits of Scotch tape from the school librarian's desk, and held a mighty few cracks and scrapes. So saying, through the damages, the prescription was incorrect to begin with and didn't allow much in the way of clarity. It was all he had at his disposal, however.

  
To put it blandly, he was surely legally blind during the day, but during the black of night he was basically a stumbling, bumbling fool with no chance at a semblance of direction whatsoever.

  
''He'e we a'e!'' Hagrid enthuses as they stop before a shadow-lit, wooden hut at the border of a foreboding forest line unveiled vaguely by the moon. ''It's not much, but it's me own.'' The door is swept aside with a creak. Immediately, the towering man is glomped by a inky dart of silhouette.

  
A hardy spiel of laughter fills the night air as Rubeus scrubs a broad palm between the ears of an over-enthused, ebony boarhound. ''Harry, this 's Fang! Fang, Harry an' Padfoot.'' He introduces, somehow managing to clear the doorway into the quaint abode. ''C'me on in, c'me on it.'' The gamekeeper bids welcomingly over a broad shoulder. Hesitantly, Harry does just that.

  
Fang redirects from his master at the boy and other dog's entrance, regarding him and Padfoot's presence with droopy, criticizing orbs. By the time the door swings closed, cutting off the sight of a star-streaked inky sky above, the hound has shuffled forward carefully, as if regarding the pre-teen's reaction. Animals are one of the fears he doesn't possess, however, and Harry carefully extends a hand for inspection, palm facing downwards.

  
Fang carefully sniffs the appendage appraisingly, gazing up at him scrutinizingly. A flurry of anxiousness rises within the boy, before he mentally smacks himself. He's worried more over the opinion of a dog then his present situation.

  
Apparently, whatever the boarhound discovers, he approves of, because before Harry has time to process, he's stumbling from the pooch's steady weight abruptly knocking into him, requesting without voice the boy's physical attention. His tail waddles in the air happily as a calloused palm abidingly rubs over his crinkled head, down over his proud back. A cursory, curious sniff-down is provided to a calm Padfoot just at Harry's side. The young Potter finds himself more relieved at the hound's approving of his first friend then of Fang accepting himself, admittedly.

  
''A'ight.'' Hagrid clears his throat, poorly hiding a grin. ''Ya hungreh?'' Harry shakes his head. The bits of porridge from earlier is more than he'd managed in weeks, he couldn't possibly stomach any more. ''Wanna cuppa?'' The youngster pauses, considering. He might be able to stomach a spot of tea...But, most of all, it'd be highly rude of him to seemingly-always turn down Hagrid's kind offers.

  
''Yes, please, si- Hagrid.'' He practically whispers, digits still stroking over a languid Fang, opposite hand planted between Padfoot's alert ears. ''I can get it.'' The brunette is swift to offer, not wishing to plight the amiable man any further. Hagrid waves him off in the direction of a cluttered table, where a band of ornately-carved chairs are placed. Hesitantly, Harry follows the man's offer, settling in a seat stiffly to watch as the half-giant sets a kettle to boiling.

  
''Make yerself at home.'' Hagrid calls over his shoulder, shedding his mole-skin coat off to the side. The edges of his jungle-like facial hair tips up at the edges at the sight of Fang taking up sprawled-residence at Harry's feet, Padfoot seated with his head laying in His Human's lap. ''Seems Fang's takin' a fancy to ya.'' The man comments lightly in amusement.

  
''Sorry.'' Harry murmurs apologetically.

  
''Nah.'' Hagrid assures with a shake of his head. He lifts the whistling kettle off the stove, pouring a steaming measurement of water into two tea cups. '''D consider it an honor, I would. 'E's only taken a likin' to meh 'fore. Doesn' even more care fer Professor Dumbledore!'' He exclaims as if the very idea is absolutely _ludicrous_. There's a particular edge to his words, however. As if they're rehearsed.

  
''Well, thank you, Fang.'' Harry states graciously, feeling _bloody stupid ** ~~Boy!~~**_ / immediately. 

  
Hagrid hums, settling the younger's China before him, careful to keep at a respectful distance. Harry nods, murmuring a ''thank you'' as he abidingly takes a light sip.

  
''Chamomile.'' The half-giant informs, settling into the seat on the opposite end of the table. ''Fer yer stomach.'' He pats his own abdomen, lifting his own cup, the size of Harry's face, to his whisker-surrounded lips.

  
''Thank you.'' The young Potter states, and means it. A swirl of gratitude for this man, whom he's admittedly only known for a matter of hours, fluttering within him. It brings about it's own ounce of melancholy, however; How depressing is it that the one person to ever show him any semblance of kindness is one whom he's known for such a short amount of time? Call him ~~broken~~ too trusting. 

  
Mrs. Figg had been kind enough when she was tasked with watching over him, yes,- especially when compared to his atypical... situation- but it was a bit tempered somehow. How, he's never been able to puzzle together.

  
Nonetheless, he'd never been so thankful towards someone before. Even though the man is still virtually a stranger. He's an amiable one, at that.

  
''Hagrid...?'' Harry begins softly, hesitantly. Shaky palms remain wrapped around his cup, spectacle-clad gaze locked on Fang at his feet.

  
''Ye'h?'' Hagrid hums welcomingly.

  
''T-thank you.'' 

  
The giant of a man startles a bit, blinking. ''Course, Harry. Ain't nothin'.'' He hesitates for a moment ponderingly, sipping at his glass a bit noisily. The younger twitches; Aunt Petunia would've smacked him upside the head with a weighty object at such a display of lack of manners. ''Harry...''

  
''Yes, Hagrid?''

  
''You ever wanna talk about them Muggles, I'm all ears, ya hear?''

  
Harry visibly startles at the sincere statement, placing his tea down with a nigh-indistinct _clunk_. ''Thank you, Hagrid.'' He manages, voice a miniscule choked. Neither of them acknowledge such fact.

  
''Oh, um, I'd appreciate if ya didn' tell anyone at Hogwarts abou' at Privet Drive. Strictly speaking, ah'm not allowed to do magic.'' Hagrid admits sheepishly.

  
''Okay.'' Harry nods. It's returned thankfully.

  
''Well, best try 'n' get some shut eye, yeh? Been a day!'' The game keeper laughs, albeit it's a bit forced, gaining his feet. Harry's swift to follow, born of long-existing reflex. The action doesn't go unnoticed. ''Ya c'n take tha bed.'' An influx of icy panic immediately surges within the pre-teen.

  
"No! I couldn't possibly, sir!- er, Hagrid.'' Harry's swift to protest. ''I'm fine right here. Or on the floor...''

  
''Nonsense!'' The older insists. ''Ah've got s'me business 'round t'e forest ta look after b'fore school starts anyways. Be pullin' an all-nighter anyway. Ya take t'e bed, Harry. Ya and Padfoot. An' course Fang, ah'm sure. If ya want, that is.'' He plows through Harry's lips parting in further protest. ''Loyal as a dog c'n be, he's a right bloody coward.'' He winks in warning-amusement. His mole-skin coat is retrieved, a gargantuan hand gesturing towards the oversized bed at his back.

  
A gust of heated air escapes chapped lips, Harry grudgingly admitting defeat. ''Thank you, Hagrid.'' He manages, not knowing how to properly convey just how _thankful_ he truly is towards the towering man.

  
''Think nothin' of it.'' Rubeus waves him off immediately. ''Well, I best be off. Yeh should get some sleep too. Gotta 'ventful day gettin' yer school things tomorra. 'Ll be back at daybreak, try 'n' getcha some rest. Fang and Padfoot'll protect ya, a'ight?'' There's a deeper meaning to his words that Harry is gracious for, just as he is for this giant of a man's hospitality.

  
''Thank you.''

  
''Make yaself at home. Extra blankets... Well, i think it's all self-explan'tory. Have Fang howl if ya need anythin'. Professor McGonagall is a floo away if ya need anythin', too.'' A cursory glance is cast around, before the man nods to himself and makes for the door. He takes painful care to skirt around Harry in such tight quarters to the best of his ability, so as to avoid potential contact. A bust of affection flutters through the younger's insides at the thoughtfulness.

  
''Have Fang holla if ya need anythin'! G'night, Harry.''

  
''Thank you. Goodnight, Hagrid.''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, does anybody want to guess what House Harry will be in?
> 
> (I ain't telling.)
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoyed!
> 
> Fun fact: Spellcheck despises poor Hagrid's accent.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a rather melancholy night and my birthday (gross) tomorrow so here's a chapter. Do with it what you will. 
> 
> I'm gonna go lay in my bathroom floor and cry now. Have a good one ya'll. Hope you enjoy.

_**Chapter 9** _

  
The next morning breaks with an odd buzzing in the air.

  
There's an unfamiliar enveloping-warmth surrounding Harry that'd never before entered his cupboard. Well, beyond the sweltering summers where it felt as though his very skin would melt away. It's a different kind of heat, however; Comforting, breathable. It's as though his hide-away had broadened overnight as well. His legs, atypically curled into a fetal position, are lengthened out across an expanse of lush, plush _comfort_. At his back, a weight rests, the same being said for his front. There's a stream of wetness trailing down his arm. Hmm, was the bathroom sink upstairs leaking again?...

  
Harry's eyes snap open.

  
He's in Hagrid's welcoming hut. Padfoot is curled back-to-back with him, facing towards the door in alert anticipation through his steady breathing. Fang is laid out in front of him, also facing the entranceway, steadily drooling on the arm loosely wrapped around his wrinkled neck. He wasn't in the Dursley Home, locked within his cupboard. A gargantuan man oozing as much kindness as he does head and facial hair had swept him away. Had explained the world of wizards, witches, and witchcraft to him. That his parents had been magical, not drunks and good-for-nothing bums. Hagrid had allowed him the use of his bed...

  
Hagrid! He was supposed to return at sunrise. He'd mentioned something about tending to around the eerie forest, the Forbidden Forest he'd been told, behind the man's home. What if he'd been hurt, though? He's no doubt a sizeable man, but that Forest just held an aura of unnerving malevolence. It'd be all Harry's fault /strike it always is/ if the man were to be in any way harmed. Or worse. Oh, heavens, what if....

  
A streak of slobber streaking across his cheek coarsely interrupts his emotional breakdown.

  
''Thank you, Fang.'' Harry chuckles lightly, brushing a hand through the dog's fur, only for it to still in shock. ~~Chuckle~~. What the bloody hell was happening to him?  
 _Hagrid_. A voice whispers, reverberating throughout his cranium.

  
It takes a mighty bit more effort than Harry would personally prefer to admit to leverage himself out of the luxurious bed. A clingy, needy, convincing Fang and Padfoot offer no assistance in that regard; Whining and attempting to coerce him to stay safely nestled between them on the comfortable mattress. Guilt gnaws at his insides at abandoning the two pooches, but it's outweighed only just. Just how long had it been since he'd freely been allowed to stretch his limbs? ~~Never~~. And Hagrid had offered him such a overwhelming amount of hospitality already, Harry felt compelled to return it somehow...

  
The creak of the front door opening and closing in an effort at quiet stalls his line of thought. The man of his thought process fills the entranceway, freezing as he catches sight of the boy with eerily-familiar dark locks half-hazardously strewn atop his bed-ridden head. With the set of clean, now rumpled, clothes; They're a bit oversized on the child's overly-slim form, transfigured for him by Minerva McGonagall a matter of hours previous, but the pre-teen hadn't complained when he'd returned after a surely relieving wash covered in the garments gifted to him.

  
Of course, he thinks bitterly, there's a particular gleam of awe in the Potter's familiar green orbs for a reason. A painful, excruciating, reason that threatened to squeeze the very soul from the towering man's heart.

  
Those inhumane Durley's were very fortunate to not have been there at the same time as Rubeus.

  
Harry, though warmed up to him in the lack-luster time he'd known him, shifts uncomfortably. Calloused, scarred digits shift subtly at his sides; As though battling against themselves not to fidget restlessly.

  
 _Very fortunate indeed_ , Hagrid muses darkly. Technically not allowed to use magic be damned.

  
''Mo'nin', Harry!'' He manages cheerfully. ''Trust the dogs tended to ya well.''

  
''Good morning, Hagrid.'' The dark-haired boy returns with a respectful incline of his head. ''Thank you for allowing me to use your bed. It was too much.'' Alarm flashes through personable green eyes. ''Not that I'm not grateful...''

  
''T'was no problem, Harry! Need ya rest. Kept Fang from tryin' chomp the furniture anyhow in my absence.'' Hagrid assures, laughing at his goofy canine's bouts of mischief. ''Ya hungry? Breakfast should be ready by now, ah reckon.''

\--...-- 

  
In all his years of preparing verifiable feasts for the Dursley's, none of them had been as hearty as breakfast at Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry.

  
They'd snuck- well, as much as conceivably possible- into the labyrinth of a castle, Harry carefully concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak from any teachers roaming the halls. Hagrid had explained to him that it possibly wasn't the greatest idea for him to so broadly be viewed within the castle's walls, or even surrounding grounds, before the start of term. The Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore,- though, he hadn't yet returned to the castle, apparently- especially. No doubt any passing teachers would be swift to inform him of a strange child- let alone a shabby dog; though that's a bit more common when it pertains to Hagrid- accompanying the local lumbering groundskeeper as well.

  
Two plates dressed with a variety of foods of all grains and nutrition await them as they step inside, after a respectful knock-knock knock-knock knock-knock-knock, Professor McGonagall's office. It's a vast amount of calories that Harry could in no way manage to consume even half, or even a quarter, of the plate full. The woman, dressed in matching robes as that night, seated behind her desk raises an inquiring brow at his lack-luster nibbling at a slice of buttered toast, but thankfully doesn't comment. After a quaint meal immersed with idle chatter between the two adults, and Harry attempting to subtly give Padfoot the items on his plate, Hagrid and himself find themselves in the Professor's chimney once more; The dim surroundings of the Leaky Cauldron greeting them moments later in a swath of green flames.

\--...--

  
''First year students will require three sets of robes.'' Harry lists as Hagrid, Padfoot, and himself make way through the streets of Diagon Alley. There's an even broader swarm of people traversing by, multiple of whom with lists in their hand just as he, than the day previous if at all possible. It causes an uncomfortable weight to reside within Harry's chest that he tried valiantly to ignore; Instead attempting to focus on Hagrid's assuring form looming a respectful gap to his left, and Padfoot's ever-welcoming presence brushing his opposing side as they walk. 

  
"Y'll want Madam Malkin's then!'' The half-giant gestures to a vintage purple storefront. ''W'nt meh ta go in withcha?''

  
Harry hesitates. 

  
''How's 'bout Ah stand righ' here wit' ol' Padfoot where ya can see us?'' Hagrid offers. Harry nods, a bit timidly. Padfoot nuzzles against his knee in offered support.  
The action provides just enough of a boost for the raven to hesitantly lever the door, nearly matching in weight to himself, open. One last nervous glance is cast at a reassuring Hagrid and Padfoot is tossed over his shoulder, before he slowly pads inside.

  
A musty fragrance wrinkles his nostrils upon entering. There's a surprisingly lacking amount of people, compared to the pandemonium outside, within. Minus the vague glimpse of a person currently overshadowed by a witch taking their measurements.

  
''One moment, dear.'' The witch calls without turning.

  
''Yes, ma'am.'' He murmurs politely, shifting in place minutely.

  
''Over here please, honey.'' Another witch appears a few moments later, gesticulating him towards the platform beside the sole other person currently being tended to.  
It's only by sheer force and enforced instincts that guides Harry onto the elevated spot on the floor. He tenses subtly as the woman immediately begins to take his measurements.

  
''Hullo.'' The person, a boy approximately around his age, opposite him greets politely. He has slicked back white-blond locks and a noble air about him. Intense, though albeit a bit curious, gray orbs gaze at the Potter's uncomfortable form currently resisting the shrieking-urge to bolt from the store.

  
'''Llo.'' Harry manages lowly. The other boy's head tips to the side in intrigue.

  
''My name is Draco. Draco Lucius Severus Malfoy.''

  
''Harry.'' 

  
He's regarded a bit oddly at the lackluster reply. But the boy is swift to continue.

  
''I am going into my First Year of Hogwarts. Suppose it will be interesting enough. There is Potions class, after all.'' Draco sniffs. ''You are a First Year too?''

  
Harry's head dips in an affirming nod. Malfoy eyes him for a moment. As if he's an unknown species that's yet to be studied. It makes the dark-haired youngster's discomfort fester.

  
''I suppose we will most likely share classes then. I am going to be in Slytherin, of course. All Malfoy's are. What house do you think you will be in?'' The blond states in a rehearsed air. Harry's given a cursory glance up and down, as if the other boy could sort him himself. The young Potter is merely left confused, however. That hadn't been something Hagrid had mentioned. Of course, they hadn't yet been able to discuss much at all, admittedly...

  
''I'm not sure.'' He settles for. Straightforward, not a lie. Just lacking in way of further conversation as the other had most likely been intending. To Harry's slight surprise, guilt builds within him at his, though common, lack-luster answers. HIs fellow pre-teen isn't aware of his quiet nature, after all. Which leaves him to most likely sound like an impolite cur...

  
''You do not talk much, do you?'' The question-statement catches him off guard. He's quick to hum an agreement, however. Never allow your guard to visibly be down, Idiot.   
''That is alright.'' The boy assures, adjusting his form expertly for the witch tending to his measurements. ''It is an underestimated advantage. One my father tells me I have yet to acquire the skill of.''

  
Dimly, Harry wonders if he truly hears a grumbled ''such a shock'' from the woman currently tending to his measurements, or if he's merely delusional. He opts to ignore it all together.

  
''I personally hope to join the Quidditch team. First Years are not allowed on, of course, but I make a wallop of a Seeker. Any position, really. I would not be opposed...'' The boy continues to chatter about the game of 'Quidditch', idly commenting that Harry's slight form wouldn't make for an awful Seeker, and all-around seemingly nattering on about anything that crosses his mind.

  
Harry offers all the appropriate noises and bare minimum of words in all the corresponding places. That is, until the sound of the front door swishes open, allowing in the hustle and bustle of the streets, that makes Harry's slackened form tense. It takes a moment for Draco to notice, casting a cursory glance over his shoulder.

  
An eerie mask of indifference, concealing the elation that'd lifted his polished features, forms over his face. It's a defense mechanism that Harry himself had perfected in the early years of his life. It's unnerving to have personal experience watching the progression first-hand, however.

  
''Not much longer, I hope.'' A posh masculine voice nearly huffs. It holds a tone that causes Harry's body language to, if at all possible, stiffen further.

  
''Merely another moment, Mr. Malfoy.'' The witch tending to Draco intones jadedly. She doesn't so much as blink at the man's imperious vocals.

  
''See to it.'' 

  
There a stiffness to the air now instead of the excitement laced within Draco's voice mere moments prior. Instead, the boy stands stock-still as the seamstress finishes- he'd been sent in for both formal robes, as his own current ones no longer met his mother's stern approval, and his Hogwarts wear, he'd informed Harry. It's as though the man's very presence had engulfed all positive emotion from the very atmosphere of the room.

  
''Suppose I will be seeing you at school.'' Draco states once allowed to step down from the podium. He speaks in lowered tones as who must be his father purchases his garments. ''Perhaps we could sit together on the Hogwarts Express? Providing you do not have unpleasant company, of course.'' He sniffs haughtily. Harry finds himself amused more than anything at the action, however. ''Farewell, Harry.''

  
''Bye, Draco. All the best.'' Such an unfamiliar statement, though he finds he means it.

\--...--

  
Ollivander's emporium for wands (''essential bit of equipment, Harry.'') is an unnerving place, Harry discovers.

  
Well, not so much the store itself, but Mr. Ollivander himself. He seems well enough of a man, if a bit of a loon. But the man stirring up conversation pertaining to his parents, surely meant to be nostalgic, merely makes his abdomen flutter uneasily.

  
His wand being the ''brother {of the one that} gave {him} that scar'' was the most eerie instance of the visit, however. He made certain not to doddle after the purchase of the phoenix feather enlaced wand.

  
He meets Padfoot outside the shop, seated ever-faithful just off to the side- where a glance out the store's window would allow him sight of the shaggy canine- of the entrance. Hagrid had disappeared on a short, he'd made certain to assure, errand as he entered the store. After nearly ten minutes of Harry promising him that yes, Hagrid, you're an adult and therefore allowed to go off on your own for your own intensions. And, yes, Harry promised to stay with Padfoot outside Ollivander's once finished and not wander about on his own without the gameskeeper.

  
Of course, such words aren't exactly the ones the noirette had used. The sentiment remains nonetheless.

  
It's not long before the half-giant returns. There's an excited gleam to his inky gaze that intrigues the adolescent. Even more so, the cage in his grasp; Where, inside, an elegant white snow owl with inquiring bright yellow orbs resides.

  
''Happy late birthday, Harry!'' Hagrid grins joyously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco's a pureblood so I imagine he was taught to Not use contractions. Just a random thought.
> 
> Oh, and Severus is added to Draco's name because I can. And Narcissa and Snape have tried to more raise him than Lucius (BECAUSE HE'S AN ASSHOLE) anyways.
> 
> Sorry for skipping around on Ollivander's and such. I might go back someday and broaden it, I don't know. Not tonight, though.
> 
> One last thing, then I'll leave you alone: If anyone sees any misspellings or anything, please tell me! I edit this shit myself and what I use before pasting each chapter on here to post doesn't have spellcheck or anything so yeah. (It sucks.)
> 
> Night (at least on my end) ya'll. See ya if I see ya.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye, ya'll.
> 
> I'm trying to get this thing posted, promise. I'm trying.
> 
> (Why, yes, it DOES finally say how many chapters there are. Thank you for noticing.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! If not, then apologies for wasting your time. :(

_**Chapter 10** _

  
The rest of Harry's list had been completed.

  
They'd purchased a pair of dragon-hide gloves (which, yes, are from a real dragon, incidentally.) The young Potter also learned that Hagrid was quite enamored with the idea of the creatures; Animal lover as he is.

  
'' _Fast an' misunderstood beasts, dragons. Fast an' misunderstood they are, Harry._ ''

  
They'd also gathered a cauldron within an intriguing, though scent-intensive, store. He'd gathered a pointed hat from the same store as his gloves, along with a winter cloak. A cauldron and crystal- Harry hesitant of owning such- phial had also been picked from a store reeking of a headache-inducing array of scents and eerie pickled ingredients. Brass scales, a telescope, an array of thick hard-cover books, along with other bobs and ins were swift to join.

  
Next they stopped in the Leaky Cauldron for Hagrid to scarf down breakfast,- Harry's treat upon stubborn insistence; the man had already done so much for him, after all- and Harry to nibble at a slice of crispy bacon.

  
''Ah, Hagrid!'' A stout man greets upon catching sight of their entrance into the pub and inn. ''The usual, I presume?''

  
''No thanks, Tom. I'm on official Hogwarts business today. Just helping young Harry here buy his school supplies.'' Hagrid declines. A broad palm lands lightly on the spectacled boy's shoulder. It's delivered with enough time given for Harry to duck away from it if he so wishes. The young Potter doesn't feel that pressing desire, ache, to _flee_ , however, and allows the contact with only the slightest twitch at being unused to positive physical contact. The man had proved himself amiable thus far, after all.

  
The man tending behind the counter, Tom, gapes at the pre-teen, realization dawning across his wrinkled features. ''Bless my soul. It's Harry Potter.''

  
The relaxed, fluid noise within the pub immediately falters at the, though not especially raised, words. Harry finds himself subtly inching closer towards Hagrid's assuring mass as every pair of eyes within the bar flicks in his direction. The game keeper guides him with a light palm towards the shadowed table in the back of the room, with a sure view of the front door, they'd occupied that night previous. He takes care to steer the boy away from tittering wizards and witches along the way, instead interacting with them personally.

  
''Harry P-Potter.'' A particularly nervous man with an intriguing mass of cloth, a turban, atop his head stutters. ''C-Can't tell you how pleased I am to meet you.'' Harry twitches at a dull pang that reverberates off the innards of his cranium; He's not so certain he can retaliate the sentiments.

  
''Hello, Professor.'' Hagrid greets. There's an undercurrent to his words that the brunette can't quite place. ''I didn't see you there. Harry, this is Professor Quirrell. He'll be yer Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts.''

  
_Defense Against the Dark Arts?_

\--...--

''Hagrid?''

  
''Hm?'' Rubeus hums through a shoveling of eggs. He only just manages to hear the low address. Even seated a mere foot across the table from the younger. He waves reassuringly for the shaggy raven-haired boy to continue.

  
''Why- why am I famous, Hagrid?'' He nigh-whispers timidly after a moment of hesitation.

  
A heavy sigh ghosts through the man's lips. '''M not exactly sure Ah' m tha right person ta tell ya tha', Harry.'' He admits apologetically.

  
''Oh.'' The Potter nods. He nudges his plate to the side of salty chips off to the side a bit, appetite nonexistent.

  
''First, an' understand this Harry,'' Hagrid begins heavily, reluctantly, after a moment, take a drag from his cup of tea.'''Cause it's very important. Not all wizards, or witches for that matter, are good. Some of them go bad.'' He explains. ''A few years ago, there was one wizard who went as bad as ya ca'n go. An' his name was V-'' he stutters, ''...his name was V-...''

  
'' _Voldemort_.'' The lumber man manages in a feared whisper after a moment. 

  
_Green-hot light and a reverberating scream._

  
''Voldemort?'' Harry finds himself repeating, in a low voice, as well. Though, his isn't laced with terror. Hagrid looks horrified at the echo.

  
''It was dark times, Harry, dark times'' Rubeus continues after a brief moment to gather himself. '' _Voldemort_ started ta gather s'me followers; brought 'em over ta tha dark side. Any'ne tha' stood up to him ended up dead. Yer parents,'' Harry leans forward the slightest centimeter in intrigue, ''fought against 'im, but nobody lived once he decided to kill 'em.''

  
''He tried to kill me.'' Harry deduces, distantly. There's an echoing fog reverberating throughout his brain. _Green-hot light and a reverberating scream._

  
''Yes.'' Hagrid nods grimly. The tea cup in his palm creaks in a groan. ''Tha' ain't no ordinary cut on yer forehead.'' He gestures with a thick digit at the lightning bolt- shaped mark mostly engulfed by Harry's shaggy bangs. Aunt Petunia, for all her nit-picking, didn't have enough care to waste her precious time in offering him a trim. In all the years he'd lived with the Durley's, the few times his messy locks had been cut were when Mrs. Figg kindly offered, or if the brunette was ~~suicidal~~ desperate enough to sneak away a pair of scissors or a decently-sharp knife to do so himself. ''A mark like tha' on'y comes from bein' touched by a curse...'' Hagrid trails off. ''An' an evil curse at tha'.''

  
''Some say You-know-Who died.'' Hagrid continues, partially musing to himself. ''Codwallop in mah opinion. Nope, Ah reckon he's out there still; too tired ta go on. Bu' one thin's absolutely certain.'' He leans forward slightly, voice lowering. ''Somethin' about ya stumped him tha' night. Tha's why yer famous. Tha's why e'rbody knows yer name. Ya're tha _Boy Who Lived_.''

\--...--

  
Padfoot is especially animated when they exit the Leaky Cauldron. Especially when Harry presents him with the rest of his discarded breakfast.

  
''Don' let Fang catch ya not sharin' wit' him, I wouldn'.'' He dimly hears Hagrid murmur behind him.

  
They make one final stop before traveling back to Hogwart's grounds. Gringotts, to be precise. Harry makes the prudent decision to load up on more currency while they're already there.

  
The high-acceleration ride down is no less nauseating the second time around, he discovers. Even Hagrid is a bit green around the beard as he teeters out to gather an obsolete, grimy package from an otherwise empty vault. An ounce of curiosity flutters within Harry's stomach, discarded for a later moment to ponder over, while Hagrid hastily shoves the unknown items into one of the numerous pockets of his coat.

  
''Best not ta mention th's ta any'ne Harry.'' Rubeus plasters on a smile. ''Woulda've got it yestaday, bu' figured ya'd've rather be it a swift trip.''

  
The rest of the day, after storing Harry's school items,- along with allowing Harry's gifted snowy owl, deemed Hedwig, to flutter off to Hogwarts' 'Owlery'- neatly arranged within a cumbersome trunk, off in Professor McGonagall's office at her utter insistence, is rather mellow in comparison. They- he, Hagrid, Fang, and Padfoot- spend it idly roaming the grounds about Hagrid's hut.

  
The towering man proves Harry's early theory of possessing a steadfast dedication towards his work. Different areas are detailed,- Black Lake, Hogwarts Castle, how Hagrid had hand-built his wooden home himself; Even explaining a short synopsis about the Forbidden Forest. About how Harry should **never** venture into the Forest's foreboding depths. Passed the perimeter of Rubeus' hut, really. Without the accompaniment of him, at the least. Or even Fang or Padfoot, for that matter.

  
Harry has the feeling Hagrid would be might reassured if Padfoot remained at his side at every waking moment. And, honestly, he can't claim to feeling any differently. Unfortunately, however, students are only permitted to possess either a cat, owl, or toad. Which, after a short discussion in which Hagrid readily offered to care after the pre-teen's companion, means no reassuring over-sized black dog to guide him through whichever House he ends up being sorted into, and whatever else the future holds. The burly man vows to discuss the topic with Professor McGonagall and, if possible, Professor Dumbledore. Harry finds a **shocking** level of affection for the man grow throughout his days.

  
Hagrid is also kind enough to explain Hogwarts houses. Gryffindor,- the game keeper's own house when he attended school before unexplained expulsion- Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. (The latter of whom Rubeus doesn't much care for judging by his tone of voice. Harry files such notion away.) Also a bit about Quidditch when he lightly explains his meeting with Draco. Stories and information about Harry's parents that the man knows of. They just immerse themselves in conversation until the sun had since retreated behind the tree line, allowing for a glimmering array of twinkling ivory to dance about the inky sky.

  
That night, stubbornly taking up residence on a plush loveseat the man may or may not have conjured with a flick of his umbrella, Harry has the most pleasant hours rest of his entire relatively young life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Listening to Blue Monday by Orgy while editing this was actually pretty... fitting, actually, I discovered. Somewhat.
> 
> (Feel free to join. I don't bite. Usually.)
> 
> Also, Come Together (I personally prefer the Gary Clark Jr. version- blame Justice League) is pretty badass. )In my opinion.)
> 
> (Could someone make a story- if there isn't one already- where Superman sucker-punches Voldy? Please? If so, PLEASE let me know so I can read it!)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ''It's the final countdown  
> Duh nuh nuh nuh  
> Duh nuh nuh nuh nuh   
> Duh nuh nuh nuh  
> Duh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuuuuhhhh''
> 
> (P.S. I'm trying- TRYING- to post every day or couple or few.)
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

_**Chapter 11** _

  
King's Cross Station is a verifiable _sea_.

  
Mind, it's nowhere near as crowded as Diagon Alley had been, but it was still shrouded with a steady stream of foot traffic. The majority of which, unfortunately, being occupied by a variety of Muggles. Which was proving to be quite a predicament.

  
The ticket in his hand mocked him with the tantalizing platform number 9 3/4, but thus far he'd, in his steadfast struggle to maintain his laborious trolley filled with his school belongings, only managed to locate Platforms nine and ten respectfully. 

  
The thought of simply requesting direction from one of the loitering guards had crossed his mind, but had swiftly been discarded relentlessly. Surely it was simplistic enough to locate if Hagrid had neglected to inform him of its whereabouts, right? Of course, when dealing with anything magic-related, nothing proved to be without difficulty, it seems.

  
It'd been unanimously decided between Hagrid, Harry himself, Professor McGonagall- and a seemingly agreeing whine from Fang and bark from Padfoot, amusingly enough- that it was perhaps in great mind for Harry to board the Hogwarts Express, belongings and all, with all the other students so as to avoid suspicion. Harry didn't particularly mind. It made him a smidgeon less of a liability, a burden, after all.

  
''Packed with Muggles, of course.'' A dimly familiar aristocratic voice sneers off to his right. A glance atop tip-toed feet over his belongings merits a flare of recognizable white-blond hair. The urge to call after the group of three trailing swiftly, regally, through the station rises within him. Before he has further chance to ponder over his plight, the shortest of the group,- also pushing a trolley; though with a visibly greater degree of success- the blond's indifferent gray orbs catch his own. 

  
''Come along Draco.'' A beatific, poised woman, Malfoy's mother assumedly, calls after her son. She follows her child's gaze when he doesn't immediately move to obey, eyes flicking first to Harry, then downwards towards Padfoot attached just at his side. The man, Lucius he recalls, had continued ahead and was currently nowhere to be seen. 

  
''Oh. Are you lost, dear?'' The witch questions. Harry nods hesitantly.

  
''Are you looking for the platform?'' Draco inquires. Another timid bob of the noirette noggin.

  
''Come along, then. We shall see you there.'' Mrs. Malfoy gesticulates. The young Potter is swift to obey, carefully keeping a respectable span from the two, on Draco's left. The blond fellow First Year doesn't miss the movement, though opts not to comment. For now, in any case.

  
It's a short distance away that they halt between the familiar markers of Platforms 9 and 10. 

  
''To get onto the Platform,'' Draco's mother begins, ''all you have to do is walk straight at the wall between the platforms; Possibly at a bit of a run. I will go through first. Draco, you may follow.'' With that, the poised woman calmly strides across the linoleum after a precursory glance, phasing straight through the brick wall dividing the platforms. Harry blinks, astonished.

  
''Good luck.'' Draco calls over his shoulder, mask minutely tarnished by a half smile-smirk that disappears immediately after. With that, the other boy takes off at a steady trot, palms clamped firmly around the handles of his carry-on. Mere moments later, Harry finds himself alone.

  
A steady intake is drawn in through his nostrils, fists clasping tightly about his own trolley. Hedwig offers him an assuring, though annoyed at being confined to her cage, blink of wide yellow orbs. Padfoot, at his side, nuzzles against his thigh. With that assurance, Harry dashes towards the brick after a subtle glance for any potentially watching Muggles, Padfoot trotting alongside him.

  
When spectacled green's blink open, it's to the smog of wispy smoke billowing forth from the blaring scarlet and ebony freight that is the Hogwarts Express, so declares the brand on the front. 

  
Unfortunately, neither Draco nor his mother, or even father, are in sight as he hesitantly rolls his belongings along. Students and parents alike are dashing to and fro in a pandemonium as they rush to both store themselves and their belongings aboard. With an upheaving ghost of breath, the raven moves to do the same, struggling to lug his belongings up the steps.

  
''Need a hand, dear Firsty?'' An unknown, teasing voice calls from above. A moment later, his trunk is being swiped out of his determined grip, along with a disgruntled Hedwig.

  
Experience from Dudley, his cousin's parents, and so many others viscously snatching a myriad of items from his hands keeps him from protesting. However, he blinks in bemusement as amiable, not malevolent,- if a bit impish- grins peer down at him; The owners of which bearing an identical resemblance. They're both red-headed boys a few years older than Harry adorned in 'Muggle clothes', with definite gleams of mischief about them. It's of the seemingly harmless sort, however.

  
''Looked like you were struggling there, mate.'' The left twin chimes in explanation.

  
''Well climb aboard, we won't bite.'' The right doppelganger teases.

  
''Unless you ask, of course.'' The other finishes toothily. A steady throb builds in Harry's temple at the fluid transitioning. He obeys, however, trailing unsurely after the older two boys.

  
''Only empty you'll find, most likely.''

  
''Hope it suits you.''

  
The gingers chime as they guide him through into a shockingly-empty compartment. Harry nods, watching as they place his trunk in the luggage rack above a row of seats and an indignant Hedwig on one of the cushions. He waits for the two to exit the limited space before entering, uncomfortable with the idea of being in such close-quarters.

  
''Thank you.''

  
''Not a problem, mate!''

  
''Oh, wherever are our manners.'' A melodramatic palm is placed over the left twin's chest. ''Our dear mum would flog us for our poor manners! I'm Forge, and this is Gred.''

  
''I thought I was Forge, and you Gred?'' The other quips in belied bemusement. Harry finds a ~~surprising~~ burst of amusement at the olders' witty antics sifting through him.

  
''Harry.'' He offers simplistically. His last name had proven to be nothing but troublesome amongst the Wizarding World.

  
''Well, _Harry_.''

  
''Enjoy your _marvelous_ stay aboard the esteemed Hogwarts Express.'' The second adopts a drawling scrawl, as if to mimic the jaded intone of a conductor.

  
''Be seeing you!''

  
And, with that, the doubles trek down the limited walkway, conspiring cheerfully aloud about what sounds like some form of prank.

  
This is going to be an... interesting year, Harry muses to himself as he checks to make certain his trunk is secure over ahead. Satisfied, he closes the partition showcasing the open aisle and settles into the seat on the left, next to the window. Hedwig coos a hoot at his side, squawking in startled displeasure upon being jostled as Padfoot takes advantage to half sprawl himself across the raven's lap. A calloused palm immediately begins to stroke over the dog's sleek fur.

  
Fortunately, he and Hagrid had managed to give the canine a cleansing scrub the day previous. Padfoot, however unendingly loyal and relatively cheerful and relaxed, hadn't made it particularly easy, though. No, it took nearly twenty minutes of chasing the hound across the grounds around Hagrid's hut, the half-giant none-so-helpful or subtle in his amused sniggers, and a steady bribe before Harry managed to coax him into the basin Hagrid had filled with water a breadth above tepid. It took nearly another thirty to scrub and rinse all the accumulated muck from the dog's fur. Professor McGonagall, in her infinite judgement, had cast a charm that left a residing shine on the pooch's coat, along with managing any remaining clumps of untreatable fur after.

  
(Why she hadn't just spelled the dog to cleanliness to begin with, Harry doesn't know. He's thankful either way, however. The amused, knowing gleam in her intellectual gaze, nevertheless, made his cheeks heat for reasons he's suspicious of. ~~Oh bloody Hell, his stoic teacher had caught sight of him chasing his furry companion across the grounds like a loon.~~ )

  
The remainder of the ride is spent in silence. Minus the excited chatter of his fellow students about him on the Express, and the steady chug of the train, that is. Harry opts to spend the time gazing out the window at the swift-moving scenery whizzing by. He does, however, admittedly indulge a bit on numerous curious sweets and treats from the trolley whenever an approachable woman rolls along in offering.

  
Most of which is carefully stored away. It's difficult to assume when his next meal would be allowed, after all. It was one of the first of many rules he'd learned in his young life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the twins. So. Much.
> 
> Lucius Malfoy is a jackhole that can get ate by a troll.
> 
> (Hey hey guess what.
> 
> Why, yes, we ARE almost at Hogwarts!
> 
> Buckle up kiddies.)
> 
> (Fun fact: I am very much sunburnt at this moment in time. Skin cancer galore.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've arrived at your destination.
> 
> (Hope ya'll enjoy. This thing was a bitch to edit.)

_**Chapter 12** _

Night had cusped when the train finally slows to a dull _chug-chug_.

  
The unmistakable, even in the inky blackness, form of Hagrid is shrouded in the light of the lantern swaying to and fro in his mighty grasp as Harry steps off the train.

  
''First years!'' He bellows over the pandemonium. ''This way, please! C'me on, now, don' be shy! C'me on now, hurry up!''

  
Harry's swift to obey, trailing a short enough distance to leech security that practically exudes from the man, but far enough back to avoid suspicion of 'The Boy Who Lived' knowing the gameskeeper of Hogwarts.

  
Long year, indeed.

  
''Righ' then. Th's way ta tha boats! C'me on now, follow meh!''

  
The boats are only allowed four First Years at a time. Harry finds himself hunkered as close to the edge of the one he'd chosen without capsizing the boat. Padfoot practically equates the size of an eleven year old,- if not bigger- but with Harry's lacking size,- concealed beneath his soft, fitted robes- three others manage to squeeze in. Though, the sole girl with frizzy light brown curls mutters the majority of the way about ''only supposed to be three to a boat'' and ''dogs aren't even allowed in the castle.'' There's a boy with familiar flaming red hair that occasionally catches a glimmer of light. He mumbles the entire journey about the female's stuffy demeanor. Harry dimly wonders if he's related to the twins from the train. The other boy is of the noticeably-nervous sort as he shuffles and fidgets about to the point the girl snaps at him to sit still before they end up tossed into the dark dredges of Black Lake.

  
Before long, the alighted, elegant illumination of the castle can be seen. Gasps and exclamations of wonder and awe echo at the numerous lowering spires and towers that make up Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite having seen the school more than once previous, Harry can't help but join their enamored stares at the marvelous display of architecture and magic.

  
''Wicked.'' The ginger beside him exclaims.

  
Before long, they're docking and, loath as he is, Harry has to send Padfoot off back to Hagrid's hut. The dog whines in concern for his human, but obeys after a moment of intense nuzzling and kiss-licks. The pre-teen watches in the relative illumination cast by the castle and Hagrid's dim lantern as the canine's silhouette slinks off into the shadows to watch as he enters the castle, before bounding off to Hagrid's home.

\--...--

  
Professor McGonagall's ever-composed stoicism escorts them as the gaggle of First Years climb an intense staircase inside.

  
''Welcome to Hogwarts.'' The pointed hat-clad woman towers above them from her vantage point at the top of the flight. She surveys their numbers individually with shrewd orbs. ''Now, in a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates. But before you can take your seats, you must be sorted,'' a buzz of anxiety vibrates through Harry's abdomen with the shriek of a thousand-swarm of bees, ''into your Houses.''

  
''They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Now,'' she lectures, ''while you are here, your House will be like your family. Your triumphs will earn your House points. Any rule breaking,'' a thin brow is raised in warning, ''and you will lose points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points is awarded the House Cup.'' She surveys them at large once more. ''The sorting ceremony will begin momentarily.'' With that, she departs through a set of grandiose doors.

  
There's a distinct croaking sound a few steps up from Harry that sounds as the door closes behind the Professor. He recognizes it as what must be the toad the anxious boy he'd shared a boat with had lost on the train. He'd appeared with a snap of the door to his compartment, the bushy-haired girl in the lead, frantically questioning through unmistakable tears.

  
Before the reptile has any chance at attempting further escape, Harry slips between a few fellow students chattering amongst one another to scoop the toad into his palm carefully. He makes his way down the stairs, free hand hovering over the creature, to where the boy is slumped-hunched against the railing.

  
''Trevor!'' The brunette exclaims in relief upon catching sight of Harry approaching with his beloved pet, gently keeping the creature cupped in his hands. The Potter had done so previously with a few amphibians and reptiles alike who'd strayed too close to his path while tending to the Dursley's lawn.

  
Once close enough, the toad leaps into his owners awaiting palms. ''Thank you!'' The other boy sighs in relief. Harry offers the other pre-teen a nod, padding silently to his former stance on the staircase.

  
Professor McGonagall appears a few moments later, gesturing for them to follow her through the sentinel-like doors leading into the Great Hall. ''We're ready for you. Now, form a line.''

  
Inside is an awe-inspiring view of the star-spotted night sky overhead. Candles float above the four individual tables sprawling across a majority of the immense length of the room. Astonishingly, numerous translucent figures are dotted throughout the grand space: High above. Seemingly trapesing amongst the constellations themselves. Weaving in and out amongst the flickering wicks of light. Milling about the edges of the aisles. Even seated amongst students; Of whom regard the entered First Years with discomforting stares, watching their steady progression to the end of the room. There's an abundance of murmuring all about Harry from his fellow newbies pertaining to what they'll have to do to be accepted into a House. He finds himself just as, if not increasingly, nervous as they at the possibilities.

  
''It's not real, the ceiling.'' The frizzy-headed girl from the trek across Black Lake informs, seemingly to any who will listen. ''It's just bewitched to look like the night sky. I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History_.'' Behind the chair is a length of table where wise gazes that must belong to the other Professors reside. They seemingly scrutinize the First Years down to their very soul as they stall just at the edge of the platform- where a simplistic stool awaits with all the decorum of the archaic electric chair. Atop of which is a musty, wrinkled brown hat. Before their very eyes, the cranium-adornment straightens, one of its numerous flaps gaping. A moment later, it begins to hum a melody.

  
_'Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,_

  
_But don't judge on what you see,_

  
_I'll eat myself if you can find_

  
_A smarter hat than me._

  
_You can keep your bowlers black,_

  
_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

  
_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

  
_And I can cap them all._

  
_There's nothing hidden in your head_

  
_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

  
_So try me on and I will tell you_

  
_Where you ought to be._

  
_You might be Gryffindor,_

  
_Where dwell the brave of heart,_

  
_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

  
_Set the Gryffindors apart;_

  
_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

  
_Where they are just and loyal,_

  
_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

  
_And unafraid of toil;_

  
_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

  
_If you've a ready mind,_

  
_Where those of wit and learning,_

  
_Will always find their kind;_

  
_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

  
_You'll make your real friends,_

  
_Those cunning folk use any means_

  
_To achieve their ends._

  
_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

  
_And don't get in a flap!_

  
_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

  
_For I'm the Thinking Cap!_

  
The hat stoops in impromptu bow amongst ringing clapping. The First Years are then lined up just at the edge of the platform. ''Wait along here, please.'' Professor McGonagall bids politely, gesturing for the entourage to halt.

  
''When I call your name.'' The Transfiguration teacher addresses, a piece of parchment held aloft in her grasp. ''You will come forth. I shall place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your Houses.''

  
''Abbott, Hannah!''

  
A girl with blond locks yanked up into twin ponytails trips up to the raised stool, settling atop the sturdy surface nervously. A moment later, the hat is lowered overtop of her noggin, drooping downwards over her eyes once released.

  
''HUFFLEPUFF!'' The Sorting Hat proclaims after a moment's pause.

  
There's an eruption of rooting from the right-side table, adorned in yellow and black. The sorted female trots off to join her Housemates. One of the ghosts, standing at the other head-end of the table waves merrily at the girl.

  
''Bones, Susan!''

  
''HUFFLEUFF!'' The hat recapitulates.

  
The sorting continues to progress.

  
''Granger, Hermione!''

  
Harry recognizes the bushy-headed girl, whenever it's her turn to march steadily, albeit a bit overwrought, up onto the platform at the direction, from the boat ride. She mumbles to herself in a string of what must be an attempt at self-assurance. Once seated, Professor McGonagall places the brim of the wrinkled brown hat in her grasp atop the girl's head. Distantly, Harry can hear the ginger from their shared drift across the Lake mutter something that suspiciously sounds like ''mental''.  
The young Potter watches as the crinkles in the hat seem to shift and contort in a manor similar to furrows transferring across a person's features.

  
''RAVENCLAW!'' The hat bellows a few moments later. The now-deemed Hermione hops down and makes way through the crowd to the designated table of blue and bronze amid a flurry of applause. Professor McGonagall continues once the uproar settles.

  
''Malfoy, Draco!'' 

  
Harry tunes accurately in at the familiar name in time to observe as aforementioned blond emerges from their hurdle of fellow First Years, expression perfectly smooth besides an undeniable gleam in gray orbs as the boy takes a seat. They catch Harry's own emerald in the crowd momentarily, before the hat is sliding just over his gaze.

  
There's a distinct, momentary pause before, ''SLYTHERIN!''

  
Harry offers the other boy a congratulatory nod through his applause as the white-blond practically leaps down from the elevated platform. Draco doesn't catch it, however, in his determined regal march over to the rampant table to the far left of the Hall. A frown downturns Harry's lips at a sneered comment about ''witches and wizards gone bad'' amongst the green and silver House. The ginger who'd spoken is swift to clamp his mouth closed at a scrutinizing glance from Harry.

''Potter, Harry!''

  
A great hush falls over the Great Hall at the call of the raven-locked pre-teen's name. He'd been attempting to prepare himself for the moment, but his hands nevertheless tremble a bit at his sides in the only outward display of anxiousness as he makes way through his murmuring fellow First Years. His features are meticulously, not that it's even remarkably challenging, arranged into a blank slate. Out of his peripheral before he settles into the Sorting Chair, he swears he catches sight of Headmaster Dumbledore's brow raising in intrigue. All too soon, darkness clouds his vision.

  
There's the discomforting sensation within his cranium similar to a prodding non-existent digit, before a melodious voice sounds.

  
'' _Hmm... difficult, very difficult. A fine mind, I see. Not a bad sense of courage, either, if needed. There's talent, oh yes, and a thirst to prove yourself worthy_.'' The Hat hums to itself. _''But where to put you?''_

  
Harry had contemplated which House he wouldn't mind being sorted into since his and Draco's, though mostly the latter's admittedly, discussion in Madam Malkin's. Hagrid had vaguely mentioned that he'd been a Gryffindor, which of course swayed the Potter a bit emotionally into wanting to please the half-giant that'd shown him nothing but kindness over the past few days. Then there was Draco's high-praise of the certifiable honor it is to be sorted into Slytherin. And the level of respect the blond had a bit grudgingly admitted towards the intellect and hidden deviousness- ''brains come with power; power comes with manipulation''- Ravenclaws possess. There hadn't been much love shared for Hufflepuff or Gryffindor by Malfoy, however. Pondering over it lately had only brought on a headache. Which, yes, there, it is.

  
Because, at the end of the day, he's Harry. Boy. **Freak**.

  
He doesn't possess the courageousness or nerve like a Gryffindor. He's not witty or creative like a Ravenclaw. Not boundlessly loyal or hardworking like a Hufflepuff. And he's most certainly not ambitious nor cunning like a Slytherin. He's just Harry. Useless. Broken. A shell trailing to the tune of those in higher position of power ~~everyone~~ than he.

  
'' _Ah_ ,'' the hum holds great sympathy, '' _you think yourself bested by those around you. That you hold no place of importance in this world, correct?''_

  
_''Yes.''_

  
_''Where best to place you, Mr. Potter. Hmm, you're a difficult one. Tell me, do you have any preference?''_

  
_''No.''_

  
_''Open-minded, very well then. Hmm. Well, then, I believe for someone with your peculiarity yes, I believe you could do well in_.....SLYTHERIN!''

  
There's a blind moment where the sheer volume of light rushes to the forefront, in which Harry's painfully aware of the pen-drop silence in the Great Hall. He takes that moment, twitching minutely in the wake of Professor McGonagall's scrutinizing stare- along with hundreds of gawking others; including the Head Table of teachers especially- at his back, to stride over to the Slytherin table without much ado. A moment later, there's a smattering of applause at a variety of levels of enthusiasm. Fred, George, Hagrid and, confusingly enough, Professor Dumbledore's amongst the loudest- the Weasleys acclamation ringing proud.

  
Harry opts for an available seat closest to the door ~~in the event of escape~~. It garners several peculiar looks, but he ignores them in favor of watching the remainder of the Sorting. Cautious not to lock gazes with anyone.

  
At one point, the griping redhead- ''Weasley, Ron''- settles nervously beneath the brim of the Sorting Hat. His scrunched features and tensed body language practically shriek, beneath Harry's knowing gaze, '' _anything but Slytherin_ ''. 

  
A moment later, he's sorted into ''HUFFLEPUFF!''

  
The Hall breaks out into polite applause for the boy, Harry included. Cat-calls, wolf-whistles and over-enthusiastic, exaggerated cheers can distinctly be heard from ''Gred and Forge,'' or Fred and George, he assumes, over the entirety of the noise. There's a distinct flush to Ron's features as he slinks over to his assigned House.

  
The discomforting stares don't falter throughout the rest of the progression. There's one in particular that stays locked on Harry's form, despite his feigned negligence, that alights a painful flame within the lightning bolt-shaped scar marring his forehead. It's simple enough to ignore it, however. He's endured worse.

  
''Your attention, please.'' Professor McGonagall requests evenly once all the First Years had been sorted. There'd been several students placed in each House, what with their number, but Harry's a bit surprised by the amount of boys and girls alike that had been placed in Slytherin. It doesn't seem like an especially adored House from what he'd gathered between Hagrid's minor hinting, to his observing of the Sorting.

  
All the situation served for, in the end, was to make the Potter distinctly uncomfortable at the volume of forms pressing so close to his own in the limited seating of the elongated table.

  
He'd yet to speak or lock gazes with anyone in his House. He wasn't interested, truthfully.

( ~~Or so he told himself.~~ )

  
What was the point, exactly? He'd never been gifted with the companionship of a friend, or even acquaintance, at his Primary School. He was always the shadow-kid in the back of the room who kept his head down, didn't speak, and had to turn in faulty grades below the grain of his cousin Dudley's. He wasn't permitted friends. And who would want to be anyways? Who would want to, in any way, associate with a _**Freak**_.

  
(Padfoot was the only exception. And possibly Hagrid. For whatever reason the dog and cheerful man would put up with him.)

  
The steady murmur of the Great Hall fades respectfully as Headmaster Dumbledore, in all his lengthy ivory beard and vivid purple robe sagacity, rises. ''Welcome!'' He salutes. ''Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!'' He cheers, before settling back into his magnificent seating arrangement. Between the smattering of resulting clapping, Harry hears a choice few mumbles and grumbles from his peers; Most of which claiming the Headmaster as ''mad'' and ''mental.''

  
''Let the feast... begin.'' Professor Dumbledore announces with a flourish of wrinkled hands.

  
Harry nearly faints at the _sheer amount_ of sustenance that abruptly manifests into existence along the center of each House's table. There's seemingly every food imaginable; Along with goblets of visibly-indiscernible liquid. A subtle precursory waft proves that his own is, in fact, filled with pumpkin juice. It also doesn't seem laced from what he can tell.

  
The gurgle of the young Potter's stomach is, thankfully, engulfed by the chatter of his fellow students and teachers alike. Despite his hunger, Harry's cautious to load a miniscule amount, though enough so as to avoid suspicion, onto his plate for fear of upsetting his fragile intestines.

  
By the end of dinner, and even dessert, he'd only managed a leery sliver of meat before the cutlery disappeared from existence. All the while peripherally aware of a select number of stares regarding his actions critically. Or, in Hagrid's case, with sympathetic disappointment.

  
Shame flurries within Harry's stomach.

  
''Ahem-'' Professor Dumbledore bids for attention, regaining his feet once again. ''Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered.'' The spectacled wizard begins suavely. ''The First Years, please note that the Dark Forest is strictly forbidden to all students. A few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.'' A willful dekko is cast in the direction of Fred and George Weasley; Whom don't appear even marginally sheepish about their apparent wandering in the least. ''Our caretaker,'' the bearded codger gestures towards an oily man, a mangy cat with an eerie red gaze poised at the tip of his feet, leaning in the entrance. ''Mr. Filch, has reminded me to inform you that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.''

  
''Also, Qudditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.''

  
''And, finally,'' he concludes,'' the third-floor corridor on the right hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death.'' Professor Dumbledore surveys the room at large. There's a few bouts of idle laughs that ring lightly through the expansive room at the latter statement. Harry is not amongst them. ''And, now, before we go to bed,'' the elder gent concludes joyfully, ''let us sing the school song!'' Students and ~~especially~~ teachers alike don't seem particularly enthused about the ringing-statement.

  
There's a dip of the Headmaster's wand-tip, before a golden tendril disperses from its end, twirling high above to form lyrics into the very air itself.

  
''Everyone pick their favorite tune!'' The spectacle-clad man quips, before taking lead.

  
'' _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_

  
_Teach us something please,_

  
_Whether we be old and bald_

  
_Or young with scabby knees,_

  
_Our heads could do with filling_

  
_With some interesting stuff,_

  
_For now they're bare and full of air,_

  
_Dead flies and bits of fluff,_

  
_So teach us things worth knowing,_

  
_Bring back what we've forgot,_

  
_Just do your best, we'll do the rest,_

  
_And learn until our brains will rot.''_

  
It seemed as though everyone, teachers and students alike, finished at different intervals. The lecturers in particular- exempting a bare few; including the Headmaster- seemed especially hurried to finish. The First Years were, understandably, left in a tangle amongst the flurry of peculiar words. Then, there was the Weasley Twins: Whom were the last to conclude in a wailing-number.

  
''Ah, music,'' Professor Dumbledore swipes his eyes tearily. ''A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!''

  
It's with great relief that Harry follows, though a respectable distance from both the leading 'Prefect' and his fellow Housemates, one Percy Weasley- another sibling of Fred, George and Ronald so claiming his fiery locks- through the winding, drafty corridors leading down into the Dungeons.

  
Though currently suffering sensory overload from all sides, Harry nonetheless finds himself just as fascinated by the historic castle as the rest of his fellow pre-teens- even considering the fact he'd previously entered its walls. From the slate brick stonework making up its mighty foundation, the labyrinth of halls they pass on their way down flights of stairs, to the truly intriguing moving portraits concealing a majority of the walls. All of which regard them in degrees of welcome, curiosity, suspicion, weariness, or indifference.

  
Prefect Percy Weasley leads them to a section of nondescript wall. With a steady '' _anguis_ '', the brickwork- much like the entrance to Diagon Alley outside the Leaky Cauldron- rolls, wriggles, and folds off to the sides to admit them. The leading ginger doesn't hesitate to lead them through.

  
The wide space inside is shrouded in yellow-green luminescence lit by the crackling fire in the center of the sizeable room, and radiant orbs dangling from the ceiling. The proud serpent House Crest of Slytherin House resides in the midst of the fireplace. Outside the vast emerald windows, the depths of Black Lake can be seen. Plush couches, chairs, and quaint tables are littered about the space tastefully.

  
''Gather around here, hurry along.'' Percy bids, planting himself importantly in the midst of the room. Once mollified at their obedience, he continues. The badge smartly attached to his robes glimmers in a gleaming flicker of light.

  
''Welcome to the Slytherin Common Room. Boy's dormitories are the third floor, far left door. Girl's, the second, to your right, farthest door down.'' He gestures towards the staircases, surveying their number as he speaks. His gaze momentarily connects with Harry standing as separated from the crowd as possible, before moving along. ''You'll find that your belongings have already been brought up.''

  
With that, everyone scatters. The young males brave the trek up the winding steps to the level above, while the females prove smug at not having to traverse upwards as lengthy. A few remain to survey the overall warm homeliness of the Common Room.

  
Harry opts to slink into the minor shadows showcased between brick and window, gazing idly at fish and other creatures that flit by through the thick of the lake's gloom. Elder years enter and exit as time progresses, before the youngster finds himself abruptly alone. Deeming it late enough for at least a majority of his fellow adolescents to be most likely asleep, the Potter pads on silent feet up the levels of the Dungeons. 

  
That night, surrounded oddly by a manor of discomforting levels and layers of breathing, sleep evades Harry. He opts to take the time to gather what class books he hadn't managed to read at Hagrid's into his arms, before treading back down to the Common Room untraced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone surprised at Harry's House?
> 
> Anguis means snake in Latin (according to Google. If that's incorrect, please feel free to correct me and I'll fix it. :)
> 
> (Fun fact: Harry was originally- during the first writing of this story- going to be a Hufflepuff, but I kept reading Slytherin Harry stories that inspired me. 
> 
> Kudos to all of them!)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to post tomorrow, so here's you a chapter.
> 
> I own up to any and all mistakes. I didn't edit this as much as I should've, I'm already aware. It's currently 12:30, though, and I wanna go lay down with some reading material. Sue me.
> 
> (Please don't. I'm poor.)
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy!

**_ Chapter 13 _ **

****  
Classes begin two days later.

  
Students are graciously afforded a day, Sunday, to prepare themselves and receive their timetables. Which, for First Years without reign over which classes they take, allows for a day full of free time to adjust marginally after their Head of House, Professor Severus Snape, passes out their schedules.

  
''Harry Potter.'' The dark-haired man pauses at the boy's name, thin brow raising as he meets Harry's impassive green orbs. They're lowered respectfully to the collar of the man's robes immediately, missing the distasteful twist of thin lips. The low, excitable chatter loitering about the room goes abruptly silent in anticipation.

  
''Mr. Potter.'' The man drawls objectionably. ''Our new... celebrity.''

  
Ignoring the whispers and light snickers, Harry slips away from his spot at the far end of the room to gather the extended piece of parchment from his Head of House's grasp. He remains a cautious distance between them, hoping for subtly. A furrowed forehead judges his backside at his traverses back to his spot at one of the numerous windows. After a curious glance at his schedule, Harry returns to his textbook _A Beginner's Guide to Transfigurations_ by Emeric Ewitch. He remains blissfully unaware of the scrutinizing stares offered in his direction.

  
Harry stays in his corner for the rest of the day. Only moving to turn a page or struggle to locate the library to gather a gaggle of reading material.

\--...--

  
Slytherin's first class at the following day, Monday, proves to be Herbology with Gryffindor.

  
Professor Sprout, Head of Hufflepuff, is a plump, amiable woman who provides an amount of slack for the clueless First Years. All arrivals are given a forgiving five extra minutes of leeway to discover the green house, before she delves into her lesson.

  
Harry himself, having spotted the location of the green houses during his time with Hagrid amongst the grounds, is surprisingly punctual. He also proves to be a decent hand at the art of Herbology, what with his experience in gardening at the Dursleys, assumedly. The same can't be said for his prim Housemates, nor the rowdy Gryffindor's, however.

  
Unfortunately for the young Potter, that's the only instance he isn't tardy for his classes.

  
He's nearly four minutes late for Charms, once more with Gryffindor, with Professor Flitwick. The short man is in the midst of rollcall, however, and only manages a stuttered version of ''Harry Potter'' from his list, before toppling off his stool. Shame floods through the pre-teen as he takes a seat in the back, even as amused chortles sound around him at their teacher's plight.

  
The arguably most intimidating class is Transfigurations with Professor McGonagall. Which he's incidentally five unfortunate minutes late for- which it would've been longer if not for a surprisingly sympathetic Percy Weasley the Prefect offering him unasked direction.

  
The stoic woman had just finished rollcall and was lapsing into a summary of the class when he arrived. The displeased pursing of her thin lips, and raised brow, cowed him all the way back to his preferred seating as far back as he could in the nigh-full room. There's a surprisingly empty table a few rows from the back, however, that he hastily settles into. He remains stiffly, though not outwardly, aware of the stares around him and the displeased regard from his teacher as he lays out a quill, parchment, and textbook atop his desk.

  
It'd been the first book Harry had read through late the second night in Hagrid's hut. He'd used the limited illumination of moonlight streaming in through one of the windows and the eerie yellow of the light outside the man's home itself to scan the text. He'd felt a strange desire to try to prove himself to the woman by studying what they'd be learning; Also returning idly on occasion to mark a few spells to further elaborate over at a later date. The same could be said for a majority of the textbooks he'd read thus far.

  
It's a rather Ravenclaw approach to the year, but it's not as though he will have any other chance to read or study once released back to the Dursley's. He's not so certain he will survive being returned to his relatives, truthfully.

  
The morbid thought of inking out his will had crossed his mind on a matter of occasions. But what, exactly, of his meager possessions did he have to give?   
Hagrid would surely care for Padfoot due to his passion for animals- along with the fact he and Fang had already bonded through cuddles and games of chase across the rich greenery of the grounds. If not, Harry imagined he could endure by himself as he had been previously. Hedwig could be granted freedom, or maybe even gifted to Fred and George Weasley- though, he isn't certain his owl would be particularly pleased by that notion. His father's invisibility cloak could be passed along to Hagrid for keeping as well, or perhaps Professor McGonagall or Headmaster Dumbledore. His school belongings could be passed down to another student.

  
Overall, he wouldn't be particularly missed.

  
''Sorry we're late, Professor!'' Ronald Wesley and Neville Longbottom burst into the classroom nearly ten minutes after Harry's own tarty entrance. The stern woman, however, is nowhere in sight when the two Hufflepuffs glance around. The ginger realizes a heavy gust of relieved air at having not been caught.

  
A few stifled snickers sound as the two pre-teens' pallor drops alarmingly as the tabby cat perched vigilantly atop the desk resting at the front of the room leaps over the edge, broadening into the disappointed form of one Professor McGonagall.

  
''That was bloody brilliant.'' Ron observes tactlessly.

  
''Thank you for that assessment, Mr. Weasley.'' She comments, unamused. ''Perhaps if I were to transfigure Mr. Longbottom and yourself into a pocket watch, that way one of you might be on time.''

  
''We got lost.'' Neville's overtly-pale form manages lowly, expression offering prayer for a sinkhole to engulf his horrified form. 

  
''Then perhaps a map?'' A look is cast between the two, along with Harry currently scribbling away on his parchment. He twitches. ''I trust you don't need one to find your seats.

  
''Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor.'' Is murmured, before the two obey. Neville ends up in a seat amongst the first couple rows, while Ron settles hesitantly beside Harry. The dark-haired boy wordlessly assists the other in catching up to speed with where they'd begun, subtly keeping a several inch gap between them.

  
''Mr. Potter.'' The Gryffindor Head of House calls at the end of class. Ron and Neville had been amongst the first to flee the room, followed steadily be their peers. Which left Harry, always slow to gather his things so as to not be lost among the confining, uncomfortable pressing forms of his classmates.

  
''Yes, Professor?'' Harry answers respectfully. He's careful to keep his gaze centered on the brim of the woman's pointed hat.

  
''I'd like to inquire as to the state of your textbook, if you have a moment.'' She approaches his table. He straightens, though doesn't dare move.

  
''Notes, ma'am.'' Harry offers, not knowing how to explain. Or having the desire to.

  
''Notes.'' She echoes, single brow raising.

  
''Yes, Professor.'' The adolescent nods. ''I merely wished to be sufficiently prepared for our lectures.''

  
''Quite Ravenclaw of you, Mr. Potter.''

  
Harry internally winces, though nods hesitantly outwardly. ''Yes, ma'am.'' He murmurs. His gaze drops to the encrusted broach fastened at her neck.

  
''Perhaps you misplaced your school map amongst your notetaking, Mr. Potter.'' There's an edge, _this is your one and only warning if you're late to my class once more_ , in her tone of voice. 

  
''Apologizes, Professor, ma'am. It won't happen again.'' Harry vows. He sincerely hopes he means it.

  
''See to it that it does not, Mr. Potter. Now,'' she extends a palm, where a piece of parchment rests, ''here is a slip for Madam Hooch. It appears I'll have made you tardy for her class as well. Hurry along.''

  
''Yes, Professor. Thank you, Professor, ma'am.'' Harry nods in guilty- he'd managed to disappoint the one teacher he'd vowed to do the opposite- gratitude, accepting the pass at a distance. Bag straps adjusted over his shoulders, he makes for the exit of the classroom after a brief farewell. In his haste to arrive for his next lesson as soon as possible, he remains blissfully unaware of the analytical gaze following his progression out the door.

\--...--

  
Neville Longbottom had fallen off his broom and broken his wrist in the time it takes Harry to arrive in a walk-run of shame.

  
An unimpressed Madam Hooch volunteers him, having already missed the beginning of the lecture on broom handling, to walk his fellow First Year to the Hospital Wing.

  
The black haired boy finds he doesn't much mind- even through the other boy's weary glances, jumpiness, and pained sniffling throughout their progression through the halls. If only to escape Madam Hooch's intimidating, piercing yellow gaze.

  
''You didn't have to.'' Neville intones morosely during their trek through the corridors. This time, Harry knows exactly where their location is through his evasion capabilities at feigning having already received his medical evaluations before the start of school the day previous. Madam Pomfrey, occupied with a myriad of students of all years, had simply accepted his answer and sent him off. The relief that'd then rushed through him had been exhausting.

  
Harry shrugs in answer to the boy's downtrodden tone. Silence reigns between them during the duration of their walk. Harry's swift to make his exit afterwards, weary of lingering in the event the woman had found moment to review his word on receiving all the pre-school medical requirements. As such, after a bidding of ''swift recovery, Neville'', he misses the nurse calling his name.

  
Madam Hooch is, albeit grudgingly, gracious enough to allow him practice of a broom that night just before dinner and, therefore, the sun settling below the clouds. He reasons it's merely so she doesn't have to teach him on top of the next lesson. It's not quite a detention, but his shameful eyes treat it as such.

  
''Welcome to your first flying lesson, Mr. Potter.'' The white-locked woman states levelly with a practiced air. ''Since you seem to have missed the actual lesson.''  
Harry's positioned before one of the numerous brooms that have yet to be placed away after class. Madam Hooch has her own, visibly healthier one, clasped between glove-clad palms as she regards him in a matter one would a pesky squirrel burglarizing a bird feeder. He feels just as mighty as one beneath her bright yellow gaze, he finds.

  
''Thank you for the opportunity, Madam Hooch.'' The Potter offers in an undertone of apology instead.

  
''You're already positioned to the left of your broom.'' She ignores him. ''Now, stick your right hand over the broom and say, up!'' She directs.

  
Harry follows her instructions, calloused palm rising above the chipping handle and voicing a blunt ''up.'' The broom immediately flies upwards into his grasp. His teacher's thin brow raises, though she doesn't offer comment.

  
''Now, I want you to mount it. Grip it tight, and kick off the ground in a low hover; You don't want to end up in the Hospital Wing like Longbottom.''

  
''Yes, Madam Hooch.'' The black-haired boy does as instructed, settling atop the handle with only a miniscule amount of hesitation. He hovers weightlessly in the air a few feet off the ground, not certain just how high up she'd allow. When he chances a glance in her direction, she's on her own broom a couple feet above him.

  
''Well,'' she muses, ''you're already here. Think you could pull off a short flight to the end of the courtyard without getting yourself killed?''

  
''Yes, ma'am.''

  
Once certain his grip is firm over the handle of the archaic broom, Harry takes off in a steady-slow glide through the air, pointed in the direction of the end of the courtyard. The air nips lightly at his fluffy mane as he gradually picks up speed, uncertain of just how speedy he's allowed to be. He settles for a level a possible step above a run. It takes a mighty bit of patience not to simply put on a burst of speed and soar through the air, he finds.

  
On Harry's way back from the end of his destination, a rogue glimmer catches the side of his spectacles. Blinking, he chances a glance downwards and spots a clear orb that he distantly recognizes Neville receiving via owl delivery that morning at breakfast. It'd been a gift, a Remembrall, from his gran, he'd overheard. He doesn't spare a moment to ponder before he's swooping down to snatch it out of the grass.

  
His feet touch back down to the Earth below where his lesson had begun, Neville's belonging clutched in his grasp. Madam Hooch is regarding him pensively when his glance rises away from the swirling mist within. As such, he misses if it colors.

  
''Madam?''' He addresses. There's a hesitant undertone to his voice, wondering if he'd misstepped.

  
''Right.'' Yellow eagle-like eyes meet his own green ones from behind his cracked and mistreated glasses. A furrow creases the woman's brow, though she brushes it off to discuss the possibility of bullying with another teacher that night over the feast. ''Good form, Mr. Potter. Off with you now, it's nearly dinner.''

''Madam?''

  
''Yes?'' 

  
''Might I help you with returning the brooms?'' She blinks in surprise. ''You did offer me lessons. It's the least I could do.''

  
The coach finds something unsettling within the boy's voice. It's none of her concern, however, and so she nods in acceptance.

  
Harry arrives, late, to the evening meal just in time to grab a roll off the table, sparing a brief moment to regard the numerous ghosts seen floating about in greeting in the Great Hall. He's unaware of the inquiring frowns that follow him as he slips out the grand doors, back to the Slytherin Common Room, after returning a stuttering-thankful Neville, seated amongst his fellow Hufflepuffs, his Remembrall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'll try to remember to post (my version) of Harry's schedule next chapter- yell at me if I forget, please! It's in the other room and I'm too scared to go retrieve it so, yeah, apologies.
> 
> Oh, by the way, a few more tags were added. If anyone is interested.
> 
> (Fun fact: I'm currently on chapter four of the story following this one.)
> 
> Goodnight/morning/whatever everyone :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone order a chapter?
> 
> (...I'm hungry now. Damn.)
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! :)

_**Chapter 14** _

  
Professor Quirrell proves to be just as unnerving and twitchy teaching as he is in personal interactions.

  
While not a particularly horrible lecturer, per se, he's a bit annoying, to be perfectly honest. His stutter is particularly bothersome when one is attempting to decipher his prattle. The turban-clad man also has a tendency to become side-tracked or zoned-out in the midst of his lessons. He, luckily, doesn't have much unbridled inclination towards decreasing House points, but that doesn't necessarily mean he neither awards them simply, nor withholds from exempting large sums when he does steal away gains.

  
Most of all, though, beyond the man's teaching methods, was the fact his classroom reeked uncomfortably, unforgivably, of raw garlic. As well as the fact that a splitting migraine steadily builds within Harry's cranium throughout the entirety of each Defense lesson; Nearly unbearably so on Thursday's when he has double DADA periods, shared with Ravenclaw.

  
History of Magic, though, is undoubtedly the most dull class of his entire schedule.

  
They share it with Gryffindor- most of whom begin to doze not ten minutes into the monotonous lecture. It's taught by Professor Binns. Whom, Harry had heard out of an idle ear, had fallen asleep one day in the teachers staff room, and walked out unaware of shedding his human body behind him.

  
Bored from the dull lecture- the Potter hadn't fallen asleep like so many of his classmates, for what it's worth- and having already read over the text they're reviewing, Harry takes the time to ponder over the possibility of not realizing one's being a ghost.

  
Potions, correctly as he comes to discover, had been the class Harry found himself dreading most.

  
It wasn't the subject itself, per se, but the bat-like teacher that came swooping in dramatically through the doors of the classroom, located within the bowels of the Dungeons. The lecturer that was also his Head of House. Who absolutely despised Harry as well.

  
Reading up on Potions itself had also proven to be an intriguing subject matter. The young Potter had put all his effort, not even entirely due to Professor Snape's loathing, into pouring over the book; Both out of intrigue, and an odd sense of responsibility. His textbook for the class was practically overflowing with notes and markers of the pages that most piqued his interest. 

  
''There will be no foolish wand waving or silly incantations in this class.'' The dark-haired man informs promptly before the door to his classroom even has proper chance to _bang_ shut behind him. He takes up position just before his desk, where Slytherin and Ravenclaw eyes have perfect view of his dark-clad stature. ''As such, I don't expect any of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potions making. However, for those select few...'' The teacher's gaze lingers knowingly on Draco Malfoy up in the front couple rows. ''Who possess the predisposition.''

  
A spindly hand drawls his ebony robes closer about his lanky form. ''I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in death.'' His sharp, inky gaze slinks between each individual throughout his speech. It pauses on the single boy in the back shadow of the room scribbling hastily across a piece of parchment.

  
Within the vast majority of his classes, Harry had taken to jotting down notes on the subject criteria during the drone of each lecture. It was part of his determination to absorb everything he possibly could about the Wizarding World before he was forced to return to the Dursley abode- where anything drastic had chance of happening. As such, he doesn't notice the dark gaze boring through his very soul until he'd already dug his own metaphorical grave.

  
''Maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confidant enough to not... pay... attention.'' Green spectacled orbs, painstakingly lowered respectably, dart upwards at the sharp bite in the man's words. As such, Harry doesn't follow the older sweeping towards him until a grand shadow towers over his slight form.

  
''What have we here, hm? A note for our new celebrity's adoring fans?'' The parchment beneath the edge of the shaggy-haired adolescent's palm is unceremoniously yanked away. This time, he can't quite manage not to flinch away slightly from the movement as the man smugly begins to read aloud.

  
''Bewitch the mind. Ensnare the senses. Bottle fame. Brew glory. Put a stopper to death...'' Professor Snape draws off, sharp focus snapping up to Harry's staring at his desk. Out of sight, a calloused palm clenches painfully about the underbelly of the table.

  
''Detention for cheek, Mr. Potter.'' The Head of Slytherin eventually snaps after a moment. The bit of parchment his student had used for note taking is practically tossed at him. There's an ear-piercing _scraaapeee_ , before the man plops gracefully into the borrowed seat in direct eye-line if Harry were to glance up. ''Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?''

  
Unfortunately, the pre-teen is sufficiently rooted in place '' ~~ _FREAK!_~~ '', anticipating a blow, to answer. His silence is mistaken for lack of knowledge. ''You don't know? Well, let's try again: Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?'' 

  
A maniacal gleam enters inky orbs at a continued lack of reply. Severus fails to recognize the glaze that'd engulfed the boy's greens, nor the undertone of his breath subtly increasing in a panic. ''And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfbane?''

  
''Se-Professor.'' To the surprise of the entire class, it's Draco Malfoy who speaks up, a bit hesitantly.

  
''Silence, Draco.'' Is cast over the man's shoulder.

  
''Pity. clearly, fame isn't everything, is it, Mr. Potter?'' The long-haired man's lips tug into a resemblance of a smirk.

  
''Professor?'' A steady voice calls from a few seats down, hand raised. It belongs to a bushy-maned Hermione Granger. The Ravenclaw girl casts a worried gaze down at a dissociated Harry Potter. ''Sir, excuse me, but asphodel and wormwood make a potion so powerful, it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, that will save you from most poisons. Monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.''  
''Put your hand down, silly girl.'' Severus Snape snaps. Hermione's palm drops to the surface of the table.

  
''That's double detention atop your original sentence for disrespect, Mr. Potter.'' With that, the Potions Professor sweeps out of his seat, wandlessly shoving the chair back into its proper place. The booming action is enough to knock Harry out of his stupor with a blank, floundering blink.

  
''Well? Why are you not copying this down?'' The irate teacher demands, taking up residence behind his desk. ''Oh, and take note of five points from Ravenclaw.'' A dark look is cast in Hermione's direction.

\--...--

  
That night, a despondent Harry Potter drags himself forcefully away from the limited sanctity of the Slytherin Common Room. He was only just returning from the late-night Astronomy, taught by one Professor Sinistra, class Slytherin shared with Ravenclaw. Immediately after the clock struck midnight, he'd beelined for the Dungeons and, therefore, for the darkest window-corner in the serpents Common Room to immerse himself in an assortment of books.

  
There's his Transfigurations textbook _A Beginner's Guide to Transfigurations_ with its page marks splayed to his left, along with two history of wizards and witches tomes, and a text on herbs and magical plants; To his right is a magic cook book that he'd happened across in the library, along with no less than four other books on potions. In the limited space afforded by the small table, a majority of the splayed books are stacked atop one another. Along with sheets of parchment splayed half-hazardously around him as he continues to fill page after page with his squiggly handwriting.

  
Professor Snape hadn't mentioned the need of his class supplies, but the bag containing such materials rests in the midst of Harry's back nonetheless as he hesitates before the intimidating door leading into his Potions classroom. It swings open of its own accord before he has a moment to even chance a knock.

  
''Mr. Potter.'' A familiar distasteful voice drawls with feigned nonchalance as the boy enters cautiously. He only just contains a flinch when the door snaps closed behind him, missing the billow of his robes by a bare hairs breadth. ''One minute until seven. Chancing tardiness, are you? Think yourself above Time itself, do you?''

  
''No, Professor, sir.'' Harry denies, hair sprawling about his cranium wildly in a shake. The man's expression very clearly displays his disbelief.

  
''You'll be given very... sensitive tasks for the next three days, Mr. Potter.'' The lengthy-locked man rises from his seat with a flourish. Harry relentlessly banishes the instinct to back away. ''For tonight's objective, you'll be tending to the items on those particular shelves.'' A spindly palm gestures towards an untidy line-up of potions vials in sections of five within an antique shelving unit. Atop it rests three short stacks of filthy cauldrons. An idle thought flits through Harry's mind over whether the man had disorganized and soiled the items on purpose. He disregards it in favor of nodding.

  
A pensive silence permeates the room for the duration of an hour; Broken only by a few snood comments, and the _scritch-scratch_ of a quill. Harry chances a guess that the latter is mostly for show.

  
Hours churn in slow-steady progression. It seems as though every time he adjusts a vial into a neat, sorted line, it's as though he's returning back to the same shelf to shift it back. The one below it. Rearranging items he'd just re-placed. Cleansing up any and all residue to be found...

  
He never does get around to scrubbing the cauldrons; Which merely ticks on another sentence.

  
It's well past evening feast when he's called to a halt on numb-achy knees. 

  
''Hmm, time flies when one's enjoying themselves.'' Snape reasons with a certain gleam to his gaze. ''Hungry, Mr. Potter? I'm certain a meal could be retrieved from the kitchen elves.''

  
''No thank you, Professor.'' Harry declines levelly. His stomach rumbles lowly. 

  
''I see.'' A thin brow raises. ''Along to the dormitories with you, then. It is nearly... One ante meridiem.'' The Potions Professor seems a bit startled by the late hour, a furrow developing between the valley of his forehead. ''You are not hungry?''

  
''No, sir.''

  
''Off with you then.'' Dark eyes trace the boy as he, after a polite incline of his shaggy noggin, gathers his half-hazard school bag- a few seams bulge alarmingly; despite the fact it's the mere _first week_ of actual classes. A low ''goodnight, Professor, sir'' is bid over the young Potter's shoulder, before he slips out the door.  
Harry doesn't return to the Slytherin dormitory that night. Or even the Common Room, for that matter. Instead, he vanishes into a shadowed corridor to slip on the invisibility cloak enclosed within his bag, before slinking off through the castle.

  
He has its standard layout entirely mapped out within his cranium by the end of the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Professor Snape is taking reins in how he's written into his own hands; Sorry *shrug*.
> 
> (I'll get Harry's schedule up... Eventually.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes are mine. Be gentle, please.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

_**Chapter 15** _

  
Madam Hooch invites him to another individual flying lesson. And another. By the fourth time, a few hours before the break of sunset, it's become a welcome habit. Distraction.

  
Except, this time, they aren't alone.

  
Just as Harry offers polite greeting to his instructor, he catches sight of Professor McGonagall standing, tall and poised as ever, against the edge of the brick corridor. Alarm bells immediately flare into fruition within the young Potter's mind.

  
He attempts to ignore it to the best of his abilities; Instead focusing on Madam Hooch's instructions to mount his broom.

  
''Yes, Madam Hooch.'' He does as he's told, hovering a couple feet above the rich greenery of the grass upon gesture.

  
''Go on, Potter.'' He's waved off.

  
''Umm...'' The dark-haired boy hesitates, unsure of his boundary limits. He's waved off, this time in slight frustration, once more.

  
Not wishing to irk the intimidating woman, he sweeps off into the late evening breeze.

  
Throughout the entirety of his life, gardening, cooking, visits with Padfoot, and reading had been his only solace beneath the rein of Privet Drive's residents. Even then, it wasn't _nearly_ as fulfilling, freeing, as mounting a broom and lifting off into the air. With the wind ghosting through his shaggy locks reassuringly, as if in wind-swept embrace. The overall freedom//I of dictating his own actions in the air. It's a surreal feeling.

  
By the time Madam Hooch calls for him to descend, the sun had begun to decline behind the veil of the tree-line. She and Professor McGonagall had moved closer together to watch as he spun, flipped and sped through the air, fainting at odd internals. To his overwhelming shock as his feet touch the ground, however, a glowering and generally displeased Professor Snape was standing with the two women.

  
Harry swallows the lump that rises within his traitorous throat.

  
''Professors.'' He nods respectfully, broom tucked just at his side.

  
''Was your first lesson the only time you'd been on a broom, Mr. Potter?'' Madam Hooch inquires.

  
''Yes, ma'am.''

  
''Hm.'' He's regarded by three analytical stares. The urge to take flight and retreat to Hagrid's welcoming hut washes over him. 

  
''Back on that broom with you, Mr. Potter.'' His flight instructor orders after a moment. He does so. "Good, now there will be objects thrown up into the air. I want you to try to catch them, understood?''

  
''Yes, Madam.'' With that, he takes to the air once more.

  
The first item, a stone approximately the size of Harry's hand, rains down from above a handful of yards to his left. It takes minimal effort to swoop upwards and catch it.

  
The second, a test tube, is off a ways to his right and closer to the ground, forcing him into a slight descent to snatch it out of the air. Cautious to remain gentle due to its being glass.

  
This continues for the better part of a half hour. He swoops, dives, faints, lunches upwards in successful retrieval, until Madam Hooch bids him to land. His breathing is releasing in a mild pant from exertion, though his gaze bares a wild form of excitement. That'd been _exhilarating!_

  
''I believe we told you, Severus.'' Professor McGonagall states with a hint of what could be considered smugness. It's swiftly vanished, glazed over by characteristic stoism.

  
''Hmph. Indeed.'' There's something discomforting within the Head of Slytherin House's gaze. The atypical disgust over Harry's very existence is there, yes, but something else as well.

  
''I believe we've found you a Seeker, Severus.'' The Deputy Headmistress states in mild amusement. Harry freezes.

  
''Professor, I thought First Years weren't allowed to play Quidditch.'' Harry's mouth forms, slightly panicked, without his volition.

  
''They are not.'' Professor Snape agrees gravely.

  
''However,'' the Transfiguration teacher shoots the long-haired man a stern glance, ''in this case, I believe the rules may be broken.''

  
''Meet me in this exact spot at two o'clock Saturday morning, Mr. Potter.'' Professor Snape grinds between clenched teeth after a moment.

  
A burst of anxious excitement flutters within Harry at the order. Him, Slytherin's Seeker? Well, if he makes tryouts, surely. He's not naïve enough to so easily imagine him being accepted. It's immediately quelled, however, at a strand of thought.

  
''Um, Professor Snape, sir...?''

  
''What, boy?''

  
A full-body flinch wracks Harry's body at the sharp address ('' _ **BOY!**_ ''). The same one that permeates his ever-living nightmares. He misses the glance shared between Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch. His grasp firms over the broom in his palm.

  
''I-I promised Hagrid I would visit him Saturday...''

  
''The entire day, Mr. Potter?'' An unimpressed glower regards him. Dimly, the look of panic in the boy's form, all the way up to those painfully-green eyes, nudges something within the adult's memories, before being deftly tossed asunder.

  
''After breakfast until the evening feast, sir.''

  
''It seems as though Sunday it is, Mr. Potter. Severus.'' Professor McGonagall cuts in before the man has chance to spontaneously implode. Most likely irrationally, she muses, by the thunderous expression manipulating his features. She turns back to Harry, lips creasing into a frown at the corners at the defensiveness of his body language. ''I believe it best for you to run along, Mr. Potter. Dinner should be prepared quite shortly.''

  
''Yes, Professor McGonagall, ma'am.'' Harry's shaggy head dips stiffly, mechanically. He pauses, turning to Madam Hooch.

  
''Lock the brooms behind you, Mr. Potter. You know the charm.'' She waves him off, knowing without words his statement.

  
''Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Professors, Madam.'' With a final departing nod, he strides passed his lecturers, a broad gap placed between them wearily.

  
''Severus.'' Minerva scolds.

  
''What?'' He snaps frigidly. _What did he do?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Professor McGonagall. She badass.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for the overwhelming generosity regarding this story! You all are what's helping keep me afloat in posting this thing. Thank you! :)
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy!

_**Chapter 16** _

  
Harry nearly collapses in relief Saturday morning at the reassuring sight of Hagrid's hut just over the crest of the embankment.

  
Exhaustion permeates his very being throughout his steady trot over the edge of the steep hill. Classes themselves had proven to be absolutely brilliant, if a tad stressful. They occupied his attention in a way that studying in the library, Common Room, or Great Hall during the meals he selected to attend did not; The way his clustered mind exempted him from slumbering with the rest of his housemates at night. In a sort that even wandering the labyrinthine hallways didn't occupy him.

  
No, the weightiness burdening his very being was of both the physical, and mental, sort. He hadn't slept but approximately five hours throughout the duration of the week.   
Madam Pince, the librarian, hadn't been particularly amused to find him face down in a book at the beginning of the week. Though, she'd left him be the other two occasions upon catching sight of the cavernous black-purple bags residing behind the abused lenses of his spectacles.

  
He was a rather respectable young man, after all. Always returning any and all borrowed books promptly, and handling all tomes with nothing but uttermost care. He'd even offered, on a number of occasions, to assist in sorting returned books- not that it was needed, she's not incapable, but the sentiment was appreciated nonetheless.

  
''Hallo, Harry!'' Hagrid beams upon catching sight of him. The half-giant is tending to some slimy... creature. (Harry doesn't ask.) Fang, nose to the ground as he detects unknown scents, jerks upright upon catching wind of the young Potter. A moment later, Harry finds himself sprawled on the grass, a slobbery tongue attacking him vigorously.  
''Hello to you, Fang.'' The pre-teen chuckles without realizing.

  
'''Ey, Fang, back, back!'' Hagrid scolds. 

  
The hyperactive boarhound obeys after a few moments, providing enough room for the boy to settle upright, tail wagging energetically. There's a nudge at the black haired adolescent's side in the form of Padfoot, whom guides him to his feet.

  
''Padfoot.'' Harry beams, embracing the dark-furred canine.

  
''Dogs been missin' ya.'' Hagrid admits. A pang of guilt floods Harry. ''How's yer firs' week been the'e, Harry?''

  
''Eventful.'' The young Potter admits, stroking a palm through Padfoot's sleek coat.

  
''Ah reckon so.'' The gameskeeper agrees. ''Been 'bout the same here. Dumbledore, good man, Dumbledore, has meh tendin' to several things 'round here. Course, 'tis me job!'' He chortles.

  
The rest of their day together progresses much the same way: Hagrid leading most of their conversations, Harry providing answer enough. Fang and Padfoot take turns vowing for the youngster's attention. There's also a few idle, occasional, games of fetch via stick or other object that Hagrid or Harry lob across the plain of the rich green grass.  
Hagrid leads way inside the hut when mid-afternoon lapses, placing the kettle on wordlessly. He'd already lightly scolded Harry in passing about his eating habits, or lack thereof. The Slytherin settles into his atypical seat at the small table, the newspaper sloppily discarded atop its surface capturing his attention.

  
**_Break-in at Gringotts_**

  
**_Gringotts Security Breached_ **

  
**_''Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31, July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. ''But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you,'' said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon._**

  
Dark brows furrow from behind abused spectacles. A break in at Gringotts? But Hagrid had said it was the safest place within the Wizarding World, second to Hogwarts. Dark witches and wizards? The vault emptied that same day, 31 July? That was the same day, Harry's birthday, he and Hagrid had been in Diagon Alley to gather his supplies for school. And the break-in had to have occurred not long after they visited so Hagrid could...

  
Hagrid had emptied a vault. That small, grubby package he'd been swift to stuff into the pocket of his coat.

  
''Rubbish, that Prophet.'' Hagrid's scoff breaks through Harry's cloud of thoughts. A broad palm smacks the newspaper off to the side, placing a cup of tea before the dark-locked boy. He nods his thanks, hands cupping around the warm mug. ''Think they know bloody everything. Don' believe e'ything that codwallop says, ya hear, Harry?''

  
''Yes, Hagrid.''

  
''Good.'' The half-giant grunts, scuttling about the living space throughout draughts of tea. ''Figure we finish our cuppas, th'n head ya off back to tha castle, yeah? Ya could use a good feast.'' A precursory eye flicks over the Slytherin's overly-slight form hidden beneath a loose, unbuttoned dress shirt and robes.

  
Harry found that it was much more comfortable to wear a more dressed-down form of his school uniforms instead of the discomforting drag of Dudley's cavernous hand-me-downs. Robes themselves had proven to be especially comforting and handy, as well.

  
''Yes, Hagrid.''

  
Fang and Padfoot whine-growl in displeasure whenever their humans attempt to escape out the door. Even Hagrid's sizeable self struggles to force the door, cautious of loose doggie limbs, closed behind them.

  
Finally, they're forced to include a particularly stubborn Padfoot in their trek up to the castle. Upon, perhaps foolish to the common outsider, promise that the canine will return to the hut when they get up to the castle.

  
''Mighty smart fella.'' Hagrid comments during their walk up the incline of the hill. ''Listens betta 'n Fang! Mighty fine show of trainin' thare, Harry.''

  
''I didn't train him.'' The younger shakes his shaggy mane in denial.

  
''Oh?''

  
''He... found me at Primary School one day.'' Harry hesitates. The less people know of his home-life, the better their end will be. Despite the fact the amiable man had seen more of his stay with the Dursley's than anyone else.

  
'''Primary School'?'' Hagrid inquires.

  
''It's a Muggle school for kids 5-11 years old.''

  
''Ah. Gotchu. Oh, hullo thare, Professor Snape.'' The groundskeeper greets the dark-clad potions master standing atop the hill. Harry stiffens at the sight of his Head of House. At his side, Padfoot rumbles a vicious growl, nudging himself into his human's side possessively.

  
''Hagrid. Mr. Potter.'' Snape returns coolly. Sharp, inky eyes regard the latter in thinly-veiled disgust. ''Finishing your supposed...engagements are you, Potter?'' He sneers.

  
''Harry here 's been wit' me since jus' after breakfast, Professor.'' Hagrid defends, a frown scrunching his features from beneath the bush of his facial hair.

  
''Hmph. I see.'' A disbelieving glance is cast between a dissatisfied Hagrid, stoic Harry, and savage Padfoot. A brow is drawn up at the latter. ''New mutt, Rubeus?''

  
'''Notha dog ta keep Fang company.'' Hagrid answers levelly. ''We was jus' on our way up ta the feast.''

  
''With a mangy dog.'' The bat-like man deadpans.

  
''Nah. 'E jus' wanted ta see us up to the castle, t'is all. He'll head on back down aft'rwards.''

  
''I see.'' After another cool stare directed between the trio, Professor Snape sweeps off in a dramatic whoosh of his cape. He pauses, tossing a ''two o'clock sharp tomorrow, Mr. Potter. Don't be late,'' over the width of his shoulder, before slinking off to the castle.

  
Harry's slightly surprised to hear Hagrid mutter a few choice words after the man's back.

  
''What'd ol' Snape want witcha?'' The half-giant questions curiously as they continue along on their trek. Harry begins to explain his being late to flying lessons with Madam Hooch, escorting a shaken Neville Longbottom (''/poor lad/I'') to the hospital wing, up to the day previous where Professor McGonagall had basically admitted to suggesting him as Slytherin's Seeker player.

  
''Reckon she's saw ya flyin' out 'er office window.'' Hagrid muses. ''Tha's a mighty fine honor, Harry.'' He congratulates.

  
''That's if I make the team.'' Harry shakes his head.

  
''Nah. Ya'll be a shoo in. T'is in yer blood, after all.''

  
''What do you mean?'' The younger questions, bemused. Hagrid's features freeze in mild panic.

  
''Er, um, I mean...'' He sighs. ''Reckon ya'll hear it sooner 'n later. Yer father was Chaser fer Gryffindor when he an' yer mother was still in school.''

  
''He was?'' Harry practically breathes.

  
''Mhm.'' The half-giant hums. ''An' a mighty fine one at that.''

  
\--...--

  
That night, Harry sneaks out into the nightly gloom, carefully hidden beneath his Father's Invisibility Cloak.

  
The halls rebound eerily behind him as he pads through each labyrinthine corridor. Atypically, he wanders with no particular destination in mind, usually merely wishing to attempt to occupy his overactive mind. This night, however, he has a specific area he wishes to visit.

  
Mr. Filch is a constant obstacle during his common, though not especially so so as to avoid suspicion, sneak-outs. He can't see Harry, of course,- though Mrs. Norris' eerie red eyes seem to stare straight through to him beneath the veil- but he has to be cautious nonetheless. There'd be sure Hell to pay if he were discovered, after all. Lights out explicitly means no students outside their Common Rooms, which means he would likely be thrown out of Hogwarts if he's caught! The sheer thought of returning to the Dursley's, so soon at that, causes goosebumps to ghost over the noirette boy's arms, down his legs.

  
Tonight, however, the janitor seems to be everywhere the young Potter goes. Just outside the entrance leading down to the Dungeons. By the Great Hall. Lingering outside the library doors. Down the Transfiguration hallway. At the end of the wing where Professor Quirrell's Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is...

  
It gets to the point where Harry cuts his losses before he is, in fact, caught and strung from the ceiling by his toes.

  
Unfortunately, during a scattered trek on the steps, the staircase begins to move of its own accord.

  
It's only as Harry, lightly panting as lowly as possible due to his frantic dash about the castle, wanders about the level that he realizes just where he'd been unceremoniously dumped.

  
The forbidden third floor that Professor Dumbledore had _specifically_ told them NOT to go on.

  
''Anyone up here, my sweet?'' Mr. Filch's unmistakable, croaky voice sounds just down the hall before he can hurry back towards the staircase. Cursing mentally, Harry dashes for the closest door, hoping to just hide inside it for a few hours.

  
To his misfortune, it merely jiggles when he attempts to open it. However, with a low '' _alohamora_ '' and flick of his wand, it creaks open. Harry only just manages to duck inside beneath the cover of his cloak inside the room before Filch and his cat creep into sight. A relieved gust of heated air rushes through the First Year's lungs.  
The thought of swooshing the weight of the fabric off his shoulders crosses Harry's mind, but is immediately cast aside. Mr. Filch, or any other teacher really, could open the room and he'd be left vulnerably out in the open, after all. His decision proves to be a wise one when, mere moments after closing the heavy door, a rumbling growl permeates the air. Or, rather, three harmonious ones.

  
Hesitantly, Harry turns. And immediately freezes.

  
There, before him, against the far wall is an enormous three-headed dog currently staring ravenously in his approximate location. Thick glops of drool steadily drip from between triplet gaping maws full of razor-sharp teeth, plonking onto a door made into the flooring.

  
A deafening bark sounds, followed by the _clink-clink_ rattle-drag of industrial chains, but Harry's already bolting for the door. There's a gust just a hairs breath away from the lower back of his neck that must be the dog, the Cerberus, clamping down on air.

  
It's only after he finds himself frantically panting out the code to stumble inside the Slytherin Common Room that Harry realizes he'd sprinted all the way down to the Dungeons.  
In the week leading up to Quidditch tryouts, Harry sneaks out once more- though this time vastly more successfully- beneath the cover of night to visit the trophy room.

Gleaming vividly from one such reward is, in fact, the name _**James Potter**_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I ever learn how to use different fonts on here, I'll make sure to come back and adjust some things. For now, bold and italics and such are as fancy as this shit gets.
> 
> Here's Harry's schedule. (Yes, I FINALLY remembered!)
> 
> (Breakfast) 6:20-9:20
> 
> Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday
> 
> 9:30-10:30 Herbology Herbology Transfiguration History of Magic Transfiguration  
> (Gryffindor)
> 
> 10:45-11:45 Charms DADA Potions Herbology History of Magic  
> (Gryffindor) (Ravenclaw) (Ravenclaw) 
> 
> (Lunch) 11:50-1:50
> 
> 1:55-2:55 Transfiguration History of Magic Charms DADA Potions  
> (Hufflepuff) (Gryffindor)
> 
> 3:00-4:00 Flying lessons Charms Flying Lessons DADA Potions  
> (Hufflepuff)  
> (Dinner) 4:00-7:00
> 
> 11:00-12:00 Astronomy Astronomy Astronomy  
> (Gryffindor)
> 
> Hopefully that's not too confusing. Subject to change, be forewarned. I've had approximately five bajillion mental breakdowns trying to figure this out.
> 
> (Edit: So, I had it all spaced out and neat and pretty, then it ate most of the spaces when when I posted it. Apologies if it's confusing.)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter and co. do NOT IN ANY WAY belong to me. I have not that sort of luck. Nor brilliance.
> 
> Mistakes are mine, as always.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

_**Chapter 17** _

  
Professor Snape has Harry practice beneath his ever-watchful gaze on Sundays for the next two weeks. Then, upon his reluctant approval, the raven-haired boy is allowed instruction on the game.

  
Harry anxiously assists the Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team, Marcus Flint, in lugging the cumbersome chest containing the balls for such game in the grass just off to the side from the towering stands.

  
''Quidditch is easy enough to understand.'' Flint explains as they walk to the center of their practice area. They settle the chest down amongst the rich blades of greenery. ''Each team has seven players: three Chasers, two Beaters, one Keeper, and a Seeker. That'd be you; If you make tryouts.'' He's swift to enunciate.

  
The hefty trunk is unclasped and shoved open. ''There are three kinds of balls.'' The largest, a deep red color, is picked up. ''This one's called the Quaffle. The Chasers handle the Quaffle and try to put it through one of those three hoops.'' Marcus gestures towards the towering, raised rings behind them on the Quidditch pitch. ''The Keeper defends the hoops. With me?''

  
''Yes, sir.'' Harry nods in agreement, catching the ball when it's tossed in his direction. It's surprisingly light between his fingers.

  
Flint offers him an odd look at the formal address. He's swift to move on to the squirming spheres latched down, however. 

  
''Better take this.'' A clunky wooden bat is extended in offering. Harry's swift to accept it, just as one of the hissing balls is released. It raises up in the air several feet, descending in the young Potter's direction. One hefty swing lobs it safely off to the side. The Slytherin Captain raises a slightly impressed brow at him.

  
''Not bad, Potter. You'd make a fair beater... If you weren't so tiny.'' He casts a precursory glance up and down the younger's over-slight form. With a frown, he makes a mental note to watch over the boy at meal times to make certain he's getting enough nutrients. For if he makes the team, of course. Can't having him keeling over mid-game.

  
''Uh-oh.'' Marcus redirects his gaze skywards just in time to watch the crazed ball come zipping back in their direction. He manages to catch it with a laborious grunt, falling onto wriggling knees. He struggles to secure it back into place inside the case.

  
''That's a bludger.'' The older pants, rising once more to his feet. ''Nasty bastards. This, though,'' he stoops to gather the smallest sphere of the bunch, ''is what you'd be after if you make tryouts as a Seeker.'' Flint opens his folded digits, revealing a gleaming golden ball. Beneath Harry's faintly curious green gaze, two transparent wings sprout out either side.

  
''This is the Golden Snitch. It's wicked fast and damn near impossible to see.'' Aforementioned sphere proceeds to zip off into the breezy air. ''You catch that, and you automatically win with one hundred and fifty points. Catch that, the game is over.''

  
Spectacled orbs watch as the golf ball-sized flier flits between the short, though definite, gap between them. Just before it can dart off into the breeze, a calloused palm snatches it out of the air.

  
Marcus Flint gapes at the First Year. Stunned.

  
''You were right, Professor.'' He states over his shoulder. Snape, who'd been lurking off to the side, doesn't so much as twitch at the address. ''He'd make a damned fine Seeker.''

  
''Language. And I don't recall saying such a thing, Mr. Flint.''

\--...--

  
Before Harry has time to realize, it'd been nearly two months since he'd settled into a semi-routine at Hogwarts. Which, of course, meant that 31 October was swiftly approaching.

  
Quidditch tryouts were just on the horizon, and plagued his innards with an anxious fluttering that was, admittedly, a bit frustrating. It kept him exhaustingly awake at all manners and moments of the day, canceling what miniscule moments of rest he was able to gather to begin with.

If not for how far ahead on his reading he is, he'd surely be lagging behind in his classes. ~~_In the first term too, pathetic._~~

  
As it is, he'd yet to be late to any of his classes once more since that dreadful first day. Also hadn't managed to score detention with Professor Snape again as of yet. Though, the loathing man would surely find any and every reason to deliver such sentence. Gleefully, in fact.

  
Potions itself was actually vastly intriguing. He'd had to partner with a number of students, but even that couldn't put a damper to his eagerness to brew new and interesting potions. Atypically, he worked with the witty Ravenclaw girl, Hermione Granger. She, for whatever reason, would often demand to work with him specifically. Something about him '' _actually assisting instead of dumping all the work onto her,_ '' she'd mentioned.

  
Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell, the turban-clad man he'd met briefly in the Leaky Cauldron, was... odd. The man's relentless stuttering carried through even in his lesson and provoked nearly everyone to the brink of madness. His lessons in particular, despite their fascinating textbook, was bluntly dull and tedious- and let alone not engaging in the least. He'd also caught the man staring eerily at him on a number of occasions.

  
Professor McGonagall, however, had been casting him worried looks from beneath the characteristic veil of professional stoism when she thought he wouldn't notice. He'd taken to avoiding the woman outside of class to the best of his abilities in fear of confrontation. What would he say, after all? _Yes, I'm perfectly alright, Professor. Just haven't been sleeping because of the constant nightmares, insomnia, and oh yes absolute terror at the prospect of making a damned fool of myself at Quidditch practice ~~and when has he ever cared about making himself look stupid?~~_

  
Professor Flitwick's class, though the man still had a minor stutter over Harry's last name, was proving to be quite interesting. They'd recently begun studying a spell called '' _Wingardium Leviosa_ ,'' complete with a jaunty ''swish, and flick!'' motion they'd been practicing. It's capability was to be able to manipulate an object, or being, into the air and levitate it. Thus far, Harry himself hadn't had much luck with it,- along with a seeming majority of his peers- but he'd taken to practicing during late hours spent wide awake in the Slytherin Common Room.

  
Astronomy was towards the top of his list of favorite classes. If only due to the fact they had permission/I, through the class, to stay up late in order to study the night sky and numerous constellations littering its inky expanse. Occasionally, he even tipped his telescope in the direction of Hagrid's hut. Or got to wave at the half-giant in passing amongst the grounds. 

  
Hagrid was rather adept at encouraging his overall efforts during the weekends Harry bounded across the grounds to visit. In fact, the amiable man seemed to, oddly enough, take it as a personal mission to be Harry's metaphorical cheerleader. It was... well, he'd yet to find the proper words to describe such unfamiliar treatment. Influential? Lifting? Freeing? Overwhelmingly kind _whythebloodyhellwouldheshowHimsuchkindness?_

  
Professor Sprout's class was actually rather engaging; Refreshing. He'd, to the taunting-jeers of his peers, taken to returning to the greenhouses once to twice a week after his scheduled list of classes for the day. Neville Longbottom could often, typically even more so than Harry, be found tending to some form of plant as well. Their cheery teacher and the Head of Hufflepuff didn't mind the assistance in the least. In fact, despite Harry's vivid protests, she'd taken to rewarding each of the boys Houses, Hufflepuff and Slytherin, five points a piece for their ''kind help.'' Harry himself, while thankful, couldn't help but feel guilty each time. He was assisting the plump woman simply for the reason of help, but was also using it as a personal form of therapy in attempt to distract his scrabbled-packed mind.

  
History of Magic was still dull. Though, he still faired better than his fellow students in the fact he managed to stay awake- not a difficult feat for him, admittedly- ninety nine percent of the time. The one instance he did not, he'd managed to jostle himself awake not ten minutes later. Only to continue with his half-note-taking, half-doodling.  
That was another such thing Harry had taken to doing during late nights he didn't particularly fancy roaming the castle's numerous halls. Drawing was a luxury that he'd never been much afforded, though more so than reading, beneath the Dursley's reign. He wasn't allowed anything at all resembling entertainment in his cupboard, especially books, but at Primary School he occasionally managed to sneak a few paperbacks outside during free time. Paper and writing utensil, however, was vastly simpler to smuggle; Whether during moments during class he'd managed to finish his work before the other children, in the school library, or even outside. It was the one and only semi-constant.

  
They were simple doodles, really. Rogue doodles of classroom and other such scenarios. (Hermione Granger's bushy head of hair dangling wildly, frighteningly, overtop of her cauldron in Potions. One of Professor McGonagall's rare smiles one day in class at a student's achievement at a Transfiguration lesson. Draco Malfoy's halfcocked, smug smirk. Seamus Finnigan's, a Gryffindor, face when a spell quite literally blew up in his face- thankfully not harmful- in the Great Hall during breakfast one morning.) Then there were the detailed sketches: Hedwig soaring, gliding, through a cloudless sky, magnificent wings expanded from her beatific snowy body. Hagrid's hairy grin. A particularly energetic Padfoot dashing through the grass. A snoozing Fang drooling on Hagrid's dusty flooring... 

  
The list was boundless. And so, he'd discovered, was his inhibited imagination.

  
\--...--

  
On the day of All Hallow's Eve, the scrumptious aroma of baked pumpkin wafts throughout the winding halls of the castle.

  
It sufficiently serves to distract the students, and the teachers admittedly, throughout the day to the point they're given lighter lessons than usual. Well, from the more sympathetic lecturers, that is. Professor Snape, in a particularly foul mood, is one such absolute example of the opposite. In fact, he assigns a cumbersome load of homework onto each of his students to complete by the following day. Even the students he none-too-subtly favors ~~Draco Malfoy~~.

  
(Oddly, Professor Quirrell seems to be in a, if not a bit more nervous, delighted sort of mood.) 

  
The dinner feast for that night was the hot talk of the day. It seemed everywhere Harry traversed, he was catching wind of comments about the evening meal. It made even him, not one to nibble on much more than slight portions at most during meals, a tad bit excited.

  
Unfortunately, however, there seemed to be a number of stares that follow him throughout the day.

  
He'd grown used to the common talk and tell about him as the esteemed 'Boy Who'd Lived' who'd also been sorted into the ''All Dark Wizards Gone Bad'' Slytherin House throughout the two months he'd attended Hogwarts. They'd since, however, decreased during that time- much to his relief. Today, however, it seems as though wherever he goes, his fellow students are regarding him piteously. Were staring at him as if expecting him to go into an abrupt fit or something equally dramatized. Would whisper and gawk openly when he padded through the halls on silent feet.

  
It was beyond unnerving. And a bit frustrating. 

  
Even the teachers were watching him wearily! It seemed as though the entire school expected him,- who'd spoken the bare minimum to anyone since school started; let alone acted rashly- to suddenly lash out or something equally bizarre.

  
From the moment he'd entered the Great Hall that night, it seemed as though nearly everyone's gaze fell on him at some point or another throughout the meal. Pumpkins of all shapes, sizes and shades of orange are decorated throughout the extravagant space, floating overhead each Houses table. Each had been elaborately carved with a personable feature. He'd took to keeping his nose buried in the Wizarding History book he'd, thankfully, been thoughtful enough to bring with him.

  
After seeing his father's name emblazoned proudly in the Quidditch trophy room case, he'd made it a personal mission to find any books on the history of the War and, therefore, about his parents' involvement as well. Unfortunately, it'd yet to provide much merit.

  
He didn't dare inquire any information about them from his teachers. Or even Hagrid. He didn't doubt that at least a few of them would be able to provide sufficient answers; And the half-giant especially would most likely gladly do so. It'd, however, been ingrained into him since infancy _never_ to ask needless, useless questions.

  
Aforementioned lecturers were amid the worse when it came to staring during the feast, he'd noticed. He'd made the mistake of meeting gazes with both Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore when he'd first walked in and sat down at the farthest end of the Slytherin table closest to the entrance respectfully. He'd made certain not to make such mistake twice. 

  
The Headmaster's twinkling orbs were creased with his usual eccentric blend of amiability, mirth, warmth, and something else he'd yet to quite decipher. There'd also been a... sadness, mirrored in Professor McGonagall's sallow features.

  
Professor Flitwick, though only just able to see overtop of the staff table, had taken to casting his student's hunched form puppy-dog eyes full of pity. Madam Hooch wasn't one to openly show a vast amount of emotion, but was also guilty of tossing inscrutable eagle-eye looks in his direction on occasion. Professor Snape, in his utter hatred of the young Potter, was mostly ignoring him, or casting him poisonous looks that'd banish him ten feet under if physically possible. (Which, when it came to magic, it very well could be for all he knows.) Hagrid had merely been regarding him carefully throughout the night. (Though, had been kind enough to send him an owl the night previous with an invitation to feign a hospital visit and hide away in his hut for the day. Harry, at the time, had bemusedly sent Hedwig with a polite decline of gratitude, only to swiftly realize that morning why the offer had been extended in the first place. The man was vividly aware of his blatant blanching at peoples gawking or closeness to his person.) Oddly enough, uncharacteristically cheery Professor Quirrell had thus far been absent from the Head Table. Harry didn't much linger on the thought, however.

  
Throughout the duration of his light- even he couldn't resist splurging a bit when it came to the scrumptious meal; even though he'd most likely be bent over the porcelain throne in a matter of hours- pickings, an idle ear keeps involuntary tabs on the conversations around him: That Draco Malfoy was, apparently, The Greatest Quidditch player to ever ride a broom, didn't you know? That Terence Higgs has _the cutest_ hairdo. And have you heard, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle got detention for eating in class _again_. That there's apparently this spell that'd turn someone's head into a pumpkin if they broke the school's rules on Halloween. That Ron Weasley had apparently, congratulations, made 'know-it-all' Hermione Granger cry in the girls' bathroom with a passing scathing remark that afternoon...

  
''TROLL IN THE DUNGEON! T-TROLL IN THE DUNGEON!''

  
Harry isn't the only one whom jumps at the abrupt _bang_ of the Hall's double doors flying open, a panicked Professor Quirrell spilling inside frantically. The murmuring-chatter that'd been filling the duration of the feast cuts off at his entrance, hundreds of eyes regarding the man as he stalls in the middle of the lengthy room.

  
''Thought you ought to know.'' The man states breathlessly, before promptly slumping to the floor in a dead faint. There's a moment of heaving silence, before absolute pandemonium breaks out. Students vault out of their seats in terror, shrieks and cries of alarm ring out, a _thump-thump thump-thump_ reverberates through Harry's temple...

  
''SILLLLLEEEENNCCEEEE!''

  
The commotion gradually fades at Headmaster Dumbledore's booming order. The weathered wizard stands, regarding each table calmly.

  
''Everyone will please, not panic.'' The older man states levelly. ''Now, Prefects will lead their Houses back to the dormitories. Teachers will follow me back to the Dungeons.'' A moment of pause. ''Slytherin House, please remain in the Great Hall at this time.''

  
''Hufflepuff, this way!'' 

  
''Stay together!''

  
''Gryffindors, keep together!''

  
''Sit down, Mr. Malfoy!''

  
There's an immediate outcry as Prefects hurriedly lead their Houses through the grand double doors of the Great Hall. A sulking Draco Malfoy, who'd immediately panicked in a dramatic display of unadulterated fright at their Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's declaration, reluctantly plops back down into his seat at Percy Weasley's snapped declaration. It doesn't, however, keep him from muttering lowly to himself. Harry's too far down to make out any of his words, though a hunch has him figuring he doesn't want to necessarily know.

  
There's a flurry of dark robes from the Head Table that flickers in Harry's peripheral through the mass of frenzied students. A majority of the teachers had gained their feet and were joining Professor Dumbledore. Though, the Potter only just catches sight of Professor Snape slinking off through a doorway behind the staff table. A slight frown downturns the edges of the ebony-locked boy's lips at the sight.

  
It's as his gaze rakes over the mass of his fellow students vying for the door that a rogue thought prods at him.

  
_Ron Weasley had apparently, congratulations, made 'know-it-all' Hermione Granger cry in the girls' bathroom with a passing scathing remark that afternoon..._

  
Hermione. Girls bathroom. Didn't know about the Troll...

  
It's only as he's dashing around one terrified Neville Longbottom that Harry realizes he'd leapt out of his seat and darted from the Slytherin table between the flurrying-mass of bodies. In his uncharacteristic determination, he's only dimly aware of his discomfort at the mass of frantic forms crowded around him.

  
Despite the fact he didn't know much about the girl except her name, her being in Ravenclaw, and definite prowess when it came to studies and magic in general, that didn't mean he wanted to leave her, or anyone really, made unaware of a dangerous situation. Without knowledge of such notion, at that. And the teachers had already disappeared off in search...

  
There's a distinct _thump-thump_ that's vibrating the very floor leading to the hallway the girls' laboratory is on. It's echoed by a steady, drag-glide of... something. A moment later, the raven-haired adolescent catches sight from his vantage point behind the bend of the hall. It's a grotesque creature towering endlessly, making the sizeable overhead ceiling seem average, in its sluggish lumber down the corridor. Directly, incidentally, into the girls' bathroom...

  
A feminine scream permeates the air ~~a green-hot light and a reverberating scream~~ when Harry enters the girls' laboratories. Hermione is ducked, arms over head, under the limited cover of now-absent sinks currently being shattered like so many of Dudley Dursley's toys by a swing of the troll's mighty club.

  
''HEY!'' Harry finds himself bellowing. His hands latch onto bits of rubble littering the floor, which he then proceeds to lob at the giant.

  
His actions don't seem to particularly bother the idiotic creature as it sluggishly turns, club poised high above its bare head, to blink down at him with unfocused, beady eyes. The makeshift bat in its grasp is then re-centered to rain down upon the First Year.

  
Harry only just manages to duck out of the way, weaving and tossing chunks of wood and other littered debris in his path at the troll's head. Unfortunately, his stooped actions prove to hinder his movements to the point the troll is able to latch onto his leg. 

  
The spectacled, which threaten to slip down the bridge of his nose, boy then finds himself dangling feet above the ground. Hermione, froze in shock in her position beneath the sinks, gazes in horror as the beast once more raises its wooden weapon, poised to bat her fellow student across the room like a Muggle piñata...

  
_''Wingardium Leviosa!''_

  
There's a distinct ringing in Harry's ears. Blinking, he manages to catch- from his updated position on the floor; where he'd been unceremoniously released from the creature's grasp- unfocused sight of aforementioned beast sprawled across the floor in a mass of gangly limbs; Its club just off to the side. 

  
There's a definite throb in his bones as Harry manages to pick himself off the floor. He ignores it, however, in favor of casting his gaze from the beast snoring noisily mere feet off to the side. He then moves on to check on Hermione cautiously straightening from her 'hiding' place. The brunette slips away, stepping cautiously over to Harry's side a moment later to lay his shattered glasses into his palm; Which, with a flick of her wand, she repairs with a muttered '' _oculus reparo_ ,''- which seems to be more out of habit than necessity. Blinking through the influx-haze of clarity, the Potter only has a moment to sweep his gaze over the girl in search of injuries, before the door to the bathroom **_bangs!_** open.

  
''Oh! Oh, my goodness!'' Professor McGonagall, at the head of the inflow of teachers, exclaims, startled. A shaky palm raises to clasp over her breast, sharp gaze focusing first on the downed troll, then on her two students. ''E-Explain yourselves, both of you!''

  
_''Hermione!''_

  
Several gazes snap towards the doorway as a panting Ronald Weasley dashes through the entrance. He skids to a stop, surveying the teachers, drooling troll laid out across the floor, and his fellow First Years in a matter of seconds. Harry's neck twinges in empathy.

  
''Explain!'' The Head of Gryffindor House barks once again. Harry flinches.

  
''It's my fault, Professor.'' Ron, unexpectedly, is the one to speak up. 

  
The stern Deputy Headmistress regards the redhead in surprise. ''Mr. Weasley?''

  
''I-I Hermione overheard me insulting her after classes and got,'' he winces, ''upset. It's all my fault, Professor.''

  
''And what of your interference, Mr. Potter?'' Professor Snape's drawling tone inquires just off to Professor McGonagall's side. There's a particular gleam in his dark gaze, much resembling a female lion preparing to strike its unsuspecting prey.

  
''I overheard Ron's making Hermione cry.'' Harry ignores the ginger's ashamed wince. ''I wanted to make sure she was made aware of the troll.''

  
''Be that as it may be...'' His Transfiguration teacher regards him oddly for a moment, ''it was an extremely foolish thing to do. I would have expected more rational behavior on your part, Mr. Weasley,'' a stern glance is directed towards Ron. ''Five points will be taken from Hufflepuff for your serious lack of chivalry.'' She turns to regard Harry, an unidentifiable emotion in her sharp gaze. ''As for you, Mr. Potter, Miss. Granger, I just hope you realize how fortunate you are. Not many a student could take on a fully grown mountain troll and live to tell the tale. Five points will be rewarded to Slytherin.'' The bun-clad woman's gaze then lands on Hermione. It softness just slightly. ''Are you quite alright, Miss. Granger?''

  
''Yes, thank you, Professor.'' The bushy-haired girl nods. ''However, I believe Harry needs medical...''

  
''I'm fine.'' Harry insists through his teeth. Granger frowns at him.

  
''But I though I heard...''

  
''Perhaps you ought to go...'' Professor Quirrell's tremulous voice sounds behind them. He gulps at the quantity of stares that proceed to turn towards his abrupt persuasion. The turban-clad man gestures between the open doorway and downed troll. ''M-might wake up...''

  
''Indeed.'' Professor Snape agrees. There's something in his voice, however, that Harry can't place. A relieved, swift Ron Weasley leads a disheveled Harry and Hermione out the door.

  
“I’d say thank you for keeping us out of trouble, Ronald, but you’re the one that caused it to begin with.” Hermione sniffs as the three students progress down the corridor.

  
“What are friends for?” The redhead more states than asks with a sheepish grin.

  
A thankful smile slowly tips up the girl’s lips.

  
“Thank you, Harry....” She turns graciously towards the raven-haired Slytherin bringing up the rear of their progression. Or, who had been following a descent pace behind her and Ron. Instead, matching wide gazes regard the space their fellow pre-teen had been in mere moments prior.

  
In the yellow-green glare of the Slytherin Common Room late-early that night, Harry carefully splints his broken leg. Flexing his digits, he curls his knees into his chest atop the cushioned seat of his atypical spot at one the numerous windows. His head thunks forward to rest against the glass separating from the inky depths of Black Lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcus Flint may be a bit too -smart- full of personality, admittedly, but Harry could use his eccentricity, let's be honest.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone.
> 
> So, let me start off by saying I, personally, despise this chapter. It was a bitch to write, due to me not knowing what the fuck I'm doing- if I'm being completely honest- and I don't presently feel up to rewriting it. It's mainly the first part until the first page break that I dislike, the rest is so-so.
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy!

_**Chapter 18** _

  
There's an anxious, festering sense of dread that threatens to consume Harry.

  
It's the day after 31 October, Halloween, where the young Potter had incidentally prevented Hermione Granger, a Ravenclaw, from potentially becoming a splatter on the floor of the girls bathroom via troll club. Which meant that today was the first of November: Slytherin Quidditch tryouts.

  
It seems as though Hogwarts' infamous rumor mill was living up to expectation. Throughout the entirety of Harry's already nerve-wracked day, murmurs, stares and snickers had followed him wherever he went and lingered. In the Slytherin Common Room just before breakfast- despite him being conserved from view via the shadows of his Spot against the window. All the way to the Great Hall, before he eventually decided to cut his losses and returned to the First Year dorm room. He still had rations from the Hogwarts Express trolley if necessary, after all. Mere sweets instead of substantial meals or not, it would be more than enough to tide him over.

  
In the corridors to and fro classes, the ebony-haired pre-teen is trailed and plagued by voices and fellow peers. They each regard him with open gawking, smirks, snickers... Unless you're Fred and George Weasley and decide to teasingly bow and applaud him every time they catch sight of him in passing.

  
He'd yet to decide whether to be grateful, embarrassed, or ashamed of such over-the-top theatrics.

  
Even the Professor's were regarding him oddly.

  
It was all exhausting. Harry had thought it difficult before the troll and everything previous since arriving at Hogwarts, what with him possessing the infant-brought Boy Who Lived title, but all this added attention was merely serving to weigh him down further by the moment.

  
All too soon, Harry finds himself lingering with his fellow Housemates just off to the side of the stands framing the Quidditch field. His palm, clasped around the school broom Madam Hooch had been thoughtful enough to allow him to borrow, quivers only slightly.

  
''Alright.'' Team Captain, Marcus Flint, bellows. He surveys his fellow Slytherin's like a sergeant preparing his troops for the blazing-heat of battle. A few of the older years roll their eyes; Professor Snape, off to the side, shoots the sixth year a _'get on with your foolishness, I haven't all day'_ glare.

  
''Listen up, 'cause I'm only saying this once: Quidditch is an art. It's like snogging-''

  
''MR. FLINT!''

  
''Sorry, Professor.'' The upperclassman states, though doesn't sound especially apologetic. ''Quidditch is an important art to the Wizarding World; Slytherin especially.'' He puffs up in pride. ''Our House has held the Cup for three years now and I'd, personally, damn-''

  
''Mr. Flint!''

  
''...well like to keep it that way.'' The sixth year's steady, determined gaze flits across each of the assembled boys and girls alike before him. ''Any objections?''

  
''No, sir!'' He receives in, mostly, sarcastic reply.

  
''Alright, then. All those who wish to sign up for position of Chaser, take up post near the hoops. For those who want to be Beaters, grab your bats and take to the sky on my mark. Keeper, take up the posts. And Seeker,'' he turns to face Harry and another boy planted a few feet away, ''you know what to do.''

  
The young Potter is uncertain if it's due to his being the youngest on the team, or a tease on the older's part, or simply an error on Marcus' part, but Harry actually does not 'know what to do'. The shrill shriek on the Captain's whistle, however, has him rising into the air with his fellow teammates.

  
For lack of any better ideas, Harry takes to zooming sedately around the outer regions above and just at the edge of the towering stands. It leaves him with a vantage point of the entirety of the happenings of his fellow tryouts. All he'd learned about the game via Madam Hooch, Flint, and the books he'd pulled from the library passes through his mind's eye in review as the Potter keeps a look out for a telltale glimmer of shimmery gold.

  
He finds himself distracted by the happenings of the other players on a few occasions, but each time manages to refocus back on his mission. There's a few instances where Harry mistakes the sun's rays as his goal- or a glimmer from the stands; Of which are filled in with littering's of cheering and jeering other Housemates.

  
'' ** _Come on, Potter!_** '' Harry swears he hears bellowed at some point. He can't quite tell if its direction is up in the air, or down below.

  
It's just as the boy vying for the third Chaser position, the others filled by Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey, manages to score the Quaffel through the ring inches above Miles Bletchley's questing digits, that there's a flicker just on the border of his peripheral. 

Harry tilts his head subtly to the side. There, just above Terence Higgs' hovering noggin surveying the score. The Snitch!

  
The golden orb swishes several feet off to the side beneath Harry's locked gaze. He doesn't dare move. The other boy is much closer. Instead, he returns to viewing out at the rest of the game around them, though keeps a steady side-glance on the sphere flitting throughout the light breeze.

  
It's only just as the Snitch darts off to the side, towards the outer bounds of the high-rise stands that he takes action, swooping upwards. It takes a startled moment, but Terence Higgs is swift to follow.

  
Unfortunately, the older boy's broom is by far superior in that it's an upgraded model. However, Harry has slight advantage via lead.

  
The raven-haired boy is lead through a dizzying spiel of swoops, dives, and upwards spirals to the point a beat of nausea rises on the horizon within his abdomen. He ruthlessly shoves it down, grip white-knuckled about the handle of his borrowed broom to the point he idly wonders if they'll have to be physically pried away.

  
It's during a particularly stomach-churning downwards descend that Harry manages to unclasp a palm, extending it outwards as far as he can possibly reach. The ripping wind plasters across his vision, blurring his already hindered sight, but not enough to distract from the gleaming gold object he's seeking out. Closer... Closer... More...

  
It feels as though the Earth itself drops from Harry's stomach as he hastily pulls upwards mere feet from becoming an uncoordinated splatter on the rich greenery of the ground below. He can only faintly hear of the whistle bidding for attention through rushing-ringing-pounding ears. The young Potter descends at the call, touching down on the grass.

  
There's a stream of motion and sound that greets his recuperating ears. Blinking through a glaring burst of piercing sunlight, the raven finds each of the other tryouts lowering to the earth as well. They're each gawking and cheering, gaze focused on... him.

  
it's only then that the slight weight in Harry's grasp computes. His palm, and he's definitely garnered even more blisters and callouses, slowly unfurls to reveal the Golden Snitch.

  
''Good one there, Potter!'' Marcus Flint strides over to clap him amicably on the back. The force of which threatens to off-balance Harry's slight form. The older boy's frown goes unnoticed.  
Harry's made Seeker ''after the first damned-near heart-stopping spiral'' as Flint eloquently proclaims. Terence Higgs is kept as placement Seeker in the event Harry can't play a game for whatever possible reason.

  
The older boy doesn't seem bitter over his being replaced, thankfully. If anything, he seems content to be a backup. ''Gives me more time to study,'' Harry had overheard him mention in passing.

Harry himself was a bit hesitant about the entire arrangement overall.

\--...--

  
Captain Marcus Flint is a demanding character.

  
Marcus Flint is an alright person on his own. He lives up to Slytherin's in-House loyalty by looking after his players. Well, all those in his House, but his team especially.

  
He had each of them under a strict regime. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were all a mandatory affair that he made certain to monitor and enforce, even upon protest. _Especially_ upon protest if you're Harry James Sirius Potter. Each meal, the shaggy-headed First Year had his plate loaded up with a vast quantity of foods that he couldn't even _dream_ of stomaching throughout even _every meal_ , let alone one. And he had to suffer through each and every bite, else the older boy would stare-glare him into submission. The look brought too many painful memories to the forefront that he'd much rather stay locked away in the far recesses of his mind. (Even if it did mean he end up bent, heaving, over the porcelain afterwards.)

  
Each member on the team also have a practice schedule two to three evenings a week, plus Sunday's- the latter for a mere couple hours. They were, thankfully, granted one free day of practice a week that wasn't mandatory, however. Harry had been using it towards his Saturday visits with Hagrid; Despite the half-giant's protests.

  
''Ye prob'ly need tha time ta study or somethin' 'stead o' listenin' ta a coot like meh yammer on.'' He'd insist. Harry made certain the hairy man was aware that no, Hagrid, he stays ahead in his studies even before Quidditch practice began, and that he looks forward to his visits. The latter had swiftly left the man in a stuttering, incoherent mess. 

  
Also, Flint practically insisted on Harry joining the rest of the House at the table in the Great Hall during meals. Harry suspected it was to monitor his eating habits. ''Have to buck you up yet, Potter,'' the elder would say. The scrutiny made the pre-teen vastly uncomfortable. Though, he'd mostly managed to wriggle out of being forced into close-contact of his fellow Housemates. Especially since his gorging left him gagging into the rim of the toilet in a matter of an hour at most. And late into the night.

  
Of course, that information was unknown. A matter he'd much rather keep to himself.

  
Professor Snape had also been especially short with Harry since his overseeing his flying lesson, Halloween and tryouts. His Head of House would regard him with even more vast variations of dark expressions than atypically if he paid him any form of mind. Would ignore his very existence, not even calling upon him to answer questions in class. He'd glare at the Potter from across the wide expanse of the Great Hall. Regard him in disgust or loathing if he caught sight of him during or before Quidditch practice... It all bemused Harry, but honestly, who wouldn't despise him: A Freak.  
The only relatively fortunate happening was in the form of one Draco Malfoy. The sleek-haired blond had approached him during Quidditch practice one day and, in rather primly-short order, offered what could've very well been an apology interlaced within an extension of friendship. If Harry didn't know any better.

  
''Not half bad, Potter.'' Malfoy had sniffed, eyeing him in his wind-swept, rumpled robes and borrowed ancient school broom with a critical gleam in his gray gaze. Harry only nodded, admittedly worn and near collapsing on the spot in exhaustion.

  
''Perhaps...'' The other boy hesitated. A stiff palm extends between them in weary offering. ''We could start over? From Madam Malkin's and King's Cross Station. I have yet to approach you since then, I am sure you have noticed.'' _I am sorry I haven't spoke with you in the last couple months we've been in school._

  
Harry's mind raced at the relatively lax words, beyond the thin slip of anxiety below his fellow Slytherin's indifferent exterior. What was this exchange? Did the other boy, relatively friendly in a matter of speaking, want something of him? The raven-headed male didn't have anything of value to exchange to the other boy- nothing that the other's parents could surely purchase, or that he couldn't gain for himself. The only thing of any significant value Harry held in his possession was his father's Invisibility Cloak. And he couldn't possibly stand to bare it to anyone unless he was well and truly planted in the dirt.

  
Although, if the other boy truly did want something of him, surely he- of relatively blunt manner- would request it of him instead of merely beating around the proverbial bush...

  
''Oh, for Merlin's sake. He's trying to ask for your hand in friendship.'' The statement was drawn from a rather jaded, though there was a definite shimmer in dark orbs, Theodore Nott; A fellow First Year. Draco shoots the boy planted several feet to their right a baleful glare. He's distracted, however, by Potter clasping his smooth palm in his own calloused one in a short, but firm, grip.

  
It seems as though Draco, after that, had took their encounter as permission to practically become his keeper when possible- alongside a relentless Flint, of course. He made certain to sit with Harry during the mealtimes the noirette attended, and often brought something back with him from the Great Hall or very kitchens themselves for the raven to nibble on. Which, being as renowned as the blond is, meant that he was regularly tagged along by his own acquaintances: Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, and Theodore Nott. All of whom in their Year.

  
Blaise is an amiable boy of African American decent that'd been nothing but courteous, if a bit lively, thus far. Pansy is a bit snooty and gossip-hungry,- wearily reminding Harry a bit of Aunt Petunia- but she has her quirks. Crabbe and Goyle have no appetite for anything but gorging themselves, let alone speaking more than nonsensible grunts and grumbles. Millicent and Theodore are the quietest of the group, but no less brilliant or observant.

  
For the first time in his life, though exhaustingly-draining, Harry James Potter can say that he has people around him whom aren't four-legged and covered in coarse fur. Or, possibly, half-giant's with an overwhelmingly-broad heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may go back and rewrite the first part someday, who knows. Please be gentle In the meantime. Please.
> 
> So, it may seem like Harry's gaining several friends, but he- personally- doesn't see it that way due to his utter lack of self-worth. Padfoot is the first one to show him a level of compassion, love and companionability, so there's a degree there. Hagrid also is seen as one of his closer others, with the twins a bit behind- perhaps even Draco too, now. Ron, Hermione, etcetera are wary territory.
> 
> (Fun fact:   
> ''Oh, for Merlin's sake. He's trying to ask for your hand in friendship.'' And, ''Listen up, 'cause I'm only saying this once: Quidditch is an art. It's like snogging-'' are my personal favorite parts of this whole chapter.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some action in this chapter!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

_**Chapter 19** _

  
It was the day of the first Quidditch match between Slytherin and Ravenclaw.

  
There's a definite coil of anxiety that plagues Harry the very moment Harry Potter awakes from the exhausted slump he'd enfolded into sometime during the late-early night. It plagues him as he gathers himself from the books he'd been pouring over vigilantly, and climbs up the winding staircase to prepare himself for the already draining day.

  
The dorm is empty when he pads on silent feet inside. The lineage of beds on opposing sides of the room are each in separate forms of disarray when he enters. Some sheets and covers cast to the side, others drooping to the floor, and a bare few neatly dressed. Harry's, the closest to the door ~~in need~~ ~~of escape~~ , is among the bare few which are perfectly tidied. If only due to the fact he hardly ever deigns to use it. What would be the point, after all?  
Except, he blinks, there's a lengthy package currently innocently laying across his crisp sheets.

  
Wearily, as though the distinct shape may spontaneously combust at any possible moment, he approaches the bedside. Perhaps it was placed on the wrong bed?

  
There's a folded note attached that he delicately removes.

  
_Use it well, Harry Potter._

  
_And don't bloody kill yourself._ It reads. There's no signature attached.

  
Confirmed that it is, in fact, for him, he tears delicately at the trim wrapping.

  
Only to very nearly faint when the item is revealed.

  
The tip of his thumb brushes almost reverently over the golden, scrawled Nimbus 2000 on the handle of the wicked broom in his grasp. Harry's mind provides the view of such sought-after model that'd been proudly displayed in the front of Quality Quidditch Supplies in Diagon Alley. Of all the children and adults alike that'd viewed it in reverent passing- himself included.

  
Who would leave such a gift, such an _expensive_ one at that, for _him_ of all people?

  
He casts the thought aside for later. Instead placing it atop where his trunk is shoved against the right end of the bed, along with Hedwig's unused cage, so as to be relatively out of sight or reach.

  
His trunk doesn't hold much. Merely a couple books of his own purchasing he doesn't need for classes, or has already took the time to read over- numerous times, for the most part. There's his stash of candies from the Hogwarts Express trolley that he keeps for emergencies that he'd mostly decided to horde for when he returns to the Dursley's residence. Along with a bare other few trinkets, his meager hand-me-down clothing from Dudley that he avoided wearing at all costs. And his sets of spare robes. Everything otherwise is kept in his school bag. Which is most likely the cause for its overstuffed disarray...

  
Harry had already had to sew its feeble cloth four times in the months he'd been in school. Even then, quills, ink vials, and bits of parchment still managed to slip through the tears to become lost amongst his meandering. His Invisibility Cloak, against his better judgement, is kept sequestered at the very bottom of his bag, beneath his numerous books of the day. It was hefty and cumbersome enough that it, thankfully, hadn't fallen through any cracks.

  
It left the raven-haired male uncomfortable to keep it in such a vulnerable location,- he could be searched at any time, after all- but he didn't trust to leave it in his trunk or beneath his unused bedding either. Once he'd taught himself several locking and privacy spells, possibly, but until then, his most valued possession was staying on his person at all times.

  
With a reluctant gust of air through his nostrils, Harry gathers a clean uniform and stalks into the bathroom to freshen up for the taxing day that's surely ahead of him. Mind and excitement racing over his newest possession.

  
\--...--

  
''Even just a bit of something.'' Draco insists. ''You are going to need your strength.'' 

  
Marcus Flint hollers an agreement several seats down the table. It sounds suspiciously like ''buck up, Potter!''

  
Harry doesn't so much as lift his head from where it's shoved in his latest fascinating book on charms. He twitches only barely as his Captain's voice carries passed the Slytherin table, garnering a few stuffy looks from neighboring Ravenclaws.

  
The Slytherin versus Ravenclaw Quidditch match was just after the last of classes for the day, meaning in a few hours. Of course, players were allowed- if the teacher was so kind- to leave their last class a bit early to prepare for the match. Harry, despite the practically tangible excitement permeating the very air throughout the castle, had been doing his level best to ignore it and keep himself immersed within his studies: Needed and personal.  
He'd stayed up all throughout the night roving over the information he'd thus far gathered. The slight package Hagrid had picked up during their traversing through Diagon Alley for his school supplies. The break-in he'd read over at Hagrid's hut, of which happened just after. The Cerberus surely guarding something on the forbidden third floor...

  
Thus far, Harry hadn't been overly successful in his efforts. Even when subtly, though guiltily, inquiring to Hagrid. The half-giant had involuntarily let slip a few facts that would surely get the Potter into trouble with Professor Dumbledore, and immediately varied to change the subject each time. It was just enough to lead Harry into looking up the unknown name Nicholas Flamel. He'd yet to find anyone of such title, however. Though, he hadn't had time to sneak into the Forbidden Section, his next target, of the library. Yet. He planned to do such during one of his late-night wanders through the castle when opportunity presented itself.

  
Gaining a number of people suddenly interested in being his companion had proven difficult when it came to sneaking out of the Common Room in the midst of the eve. Draco especially enjoyed badgering Harry to join him and the other boys in the dormitories. The blond had yet to be successful, but he was nothing if not tenacious. Even Pansy, of annoyingly high-pitched, whiny voice when desired, had yet to convince the spectacled boy. Even the promise of late-night games- Exploding Snap, Wizards Chess, and what sounded like a version of Truth of Dare- hadn't piqued his interest. He wasn't one for engaging in crowds.

  
Harry applauded, appreciated, their efforts nonetheless.

  
''Good luck today, Potter.'' Professor Snape's lofty tone breaks him out of his studying. Dark eyes skim over the title of the tome he neatly folds into the break of his palm. A brow quirks at his choice of light reading. ''Then again, now that you've proven yourself against a troll, a little game of Quidditch should be easy work for you. Might I have a word?''

  
''Yes, sir.'' Harry murmurs abidingly. Beneath he scrutinizing stares of nearly the entire table of his Housemates, and what seems like all of Ravenclaw and the Head Table, he joins his Head of House just outside the grand doorway of the Great Hall.

  
The dark-locked man regards him beneath steely dark orbs that seem to gaze into his very soul for a few steady beats. When he speaks, his tone is lowered even more than typically. That doesn't negate the frigidness of his words.

  
''Mr. Potter. As you very well know, you're being a Seeker on My Quidditch team is merely due to the combined stubbornness of Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch. That doesn't, however, negate you a permanent position due to some clever performances on a broomstick. If I see or hear of _any_ even remarkably foolish mistakes on your part, Mr. Higgs will take up position as the lead Seeker. Am I understood?''

  
''Yes, Professor, sir.'' Harry confirms with a jerk of his cranium. He firmly keeps his gaze respectably locked on the high collar of the man's undershirt. It's returned. The younger takes that as the wordless dismissal it is, returning crisply to his spot at the table so as to avoid suspicion. He can't, however, help but notice the way his Professor is keeping all his weight to one side. Or the gauze wrapped about his shin before pivoting.

  
He waves off Draco, Flint, and all surroundings curiosity at their Head of House's pulling him aside by engulfing himself back into his novel. He's all too aware of the burning gazes of one Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore at the Head, and Fred and George Weasley a mere table over.

  
\--...--

  
It's as Harry is making way to the Quidditch field from the Dungeon's to gather his new Nimbus that he's approached.

  
Specifically, that he's framed on either side by duplicate grins. Fred and George Weasley.

  
''Hullo, Harry!'' The former, on the right, greets cheerily. ''Mighty fine broom ya've got there!''

  
''Thank you.'' Harry nods a bit shyly.

  
''Scared?'' George inquires in a light tease.

  
''That's alright,'' his double continues before the youngest has chance to respond, ''we felt the same way before our first game...'' Fred stares whimsically out across the grounds ahead of them, proving that they hadn't been afraid in the least. Of course, it is the twins. Despite being Ravenclaw's, they are infamously brave in all they do.

  
''We'll try not to cast too many bludgers at you, yeah?'' George winks.

  
''Course, that's our job though.'' His doppelganger muses. ''So can't make any promises, of course. Rough game, Quidditch.''

  
''How's about we volunteer to cart you off to the Hospital Wing if anything happens, yeah?''

  
''Right-o, Forge.''

  
By the end of their spiel, Harry's only a tad bit nauseated as he diverts off to the changing rooms.

  
\--...--

  
The stands are ear-splittingly raucous throughout the entirety of the game.

  
Lee Jordan, a friend of the twins if Harry recalls, offers commentary during the duration of the match. Despite being a Gryffindor, his speaking is decidedly biased in Ravenclaw's favor. It's blatantly obvious that he's vying for anyone that's not a Slytherin serpent to win the match.

  
He cheers the Weasley Twins, Beaters, on especially. There's numerous times where Professor McGonagall can be heard over the loudspeaker scolding him in the background.

  
It's a clean game, despite the rumors of the contrary concerning the green and silver team. Flint proves himself as a rather skilled Beater, as do Fred and George admittedly. There's a specific point in time where it seems as though they trade potshots in jest, though he's not certain. The score remains relatively close throughout a majority of the game. Captain Flint keeps tossing him shifty glances through bashes of bludgers with his bat.  
Harry opts to do as he had been during practice: Flit about the edges around the high-rise stands and gaze about for the telltale glimmering gold of the Snitch. Thus far, he'd yet to even catch a glimpse of it. He didn't think Ravenclaw's Seeker had either as of yet.

  
There's a smattering of cheers and jeers that arise throughout the field as Slytherin scores. Harry himself echoes it within the sanctity of his inner cranium so as to not be distracted. It proves to be a rather brilliant course of action.

  
The raven-haired First Year clasps his glove-clad digits tighter about the handle of his Nimbus 2000 as the new broom abruptly gives a lurch of its own accord. Followed by another. And another. And another... All the young Potter can do is grasp the handle in a white-knuckled vise-grip as he's thrashed and buckled about restlessly, tumbling higher and lower through the air at dizzying speeds.

  
The background wave of noise around him fades into a dim pattering as he struggles to keep grip on his broom with the practice gloves Madam Hooch had permitted he could borrow for matches until he could purchase his own. Unfortunately, a particularly savage buck topples him over the edge, dangling by the stubborn bend of his right hand.

  
Harry fights to sling himself back into position overtop his broom, fingers threatening to slip and send him into a freefall tens of feet above the ground.

  
Three fingers...

  
Two fingers...

  
One...

  
He's suddenly weightless.

  
Is this finally it? Will this be his end? The one the Dursley's had viciously been vying to happen.

  
_Hagrid, the parchment is under my mattress._

  
And then, abruptly, he's connecting with a blunt object. Only, it doesn't send him splattering across the ground. Bemused green orbs open to discover that it's his broom. A glimmering gold slithers passed the very edge of his peripheral.

  
Just like that, he's swooping upwards through the cutting air and breeze, gaining height at record speed. It's the first time throughout the entirety of the match that he'd, thus far, been able to utilize his mystery-sent Nimbus 2000 to its full potential.

  
The Potter is far above the stands and his fellow players when the Snitch, still several feet out of his reach, abruptly declines downwards. He's swift to follow, hands shaking with the strained effort to stay firm about the handle of his broom as gravity plows into him from all sides.

  
 _You're being a Seeker on My Quidditch team is merely due to the combined stubbornness of Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch. That doesn't, however, negate you a permanent position due to some clever performances on a broomstick._ Professor Snape's sneer mocks him. Harry puts on another burst of speed.

  
The ground is swiftly approaching the further he descends. It's ignored, however, at the flood of adrenaline currently numbing-igniting Harry's veins. There's less than four feet between him and the gleaming orb as he extends his arm, leaning forward as far as his short frame possibly can...

  
He's suddenly weightless once more. Then tumbling across the ground head over heels.

  
There's the distinct rushing of blood in his ears as the raven lays, at first, across the grass panting. There's... there's something in his mouth...

  
_''He's got the Snitch! Harry Potter receives one hundred and fifty points for catching the Golden Snitch!''_

  
It's all at once that Jordan Lee's dumbfounded-impressed voice echoes throughout the pitch, immediately followed by the cacophany of the crowd practically roaring. In individual triumph and displeasure. Harry blinks stupidly at the damp orb resting in the midst of his palm.

  
He's then overwhelmed as Marcus Flint and the rest of his team- along with a few Ravenclaw's; namely a congratulatory Fred and George- swarm him from all sides. One of the twins carefully assist him in gaining his feet, while the other claps him on the back good-naturedly. The Potter is dimly aware of a muddled white static that could be a clamor of noises all talking at once, but he's only concerned about the closeness of the forms around him and the hands... The hands... No. No no no nononono...

  
_**''Freakish Boy!''** _

  
''-right there, Harry?''

  
''Hagrid?'' He murmurs.

  
''In a wicked stupor, he is.'' Fred. Or George. Gred? Forge?

  
''C'me along thare, Harry. Padfoot's worried 'boutcha.''

  
The blending shapes and sounds snap into focus around him. There's a distinct pounding in Harry's head that always seems to accompany such episodes.

  
There's a brushing of softness ghosting through the gaps in his borrowed gloves. It takes him a moment to realize that it's Padfoot nudging into his palm with a concerned whine. The First Year immediately obliges, gazing into concerned gray orbs. It's only then that Harry realizes he's no longer on the Quidditch field. He'd, apparently, managed to trail after a concerned, frowning, Fred and George. The latter of whom has the raven's Nimbus loosely dangling between his digits.

  
''Thank you.'' Harry manages to croak. He doesn't quite manage to conceal a full-bodied flinch as the left twin extends his broom in his direction. He only just manages to accept it, hand remaining buried in his canine companion's fur grounding-ly.

  
''T'was a mighty fine win there, Harry.'' Fred speaks up. His usual cheery tone of voice is still there, but it seems forced somehow. There's an undercurrent to the redhead's vocals; Something startlingly grave. And maybe even impressed.

  
''Thank you.''

  
''Well, the feast ain't fer a few hours. Fang's surely missin' ya. Know Padfoot does.'' Hagrid cuts in amiably. A distant part of Harry, one that doesn't feel as though he's being smothered, appreciates the half-giant's overwhelming compassion. ''Ya two can tag along too if ya don' have nothin' else. So long as ya steer clear o' the Forest.'' A significant look is fastened between the double redheads.

  
And so, that's how the fuzziness slowly, steadily, fades into the background about one Harry Potter. There's many a teasing and antics from Fred and George as they, Hagrid, Harry, Padfoot and Fang traverse about the greenery around the groundskeeper's hut. The twins regale all who will listen with tales about many of their pranking escapades, and make unconcerned fools of themselves by play-wrestling and dancing about. Hagrid booms hardy laughter at all the key moments. Padfoot takes shifts pressed against his human's knees, and frolicking with the twins or Fang.

  
All in all, it's the most fullfilling day of Harry James Sirius Potter's young life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have a question:
> 
> I'm doing my best to work on the story that takes place after this one (chapter 9!). I've been debating the last few days whether or not to include Luna Lovegood in it or not. And if so, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff? I've yet to decide. Anyone have any thoughts?
> 
> (Bare in mind that I have absolutely no intention of writing about anything other than Philosopher's Stone, Chamber of Secrets and Prisoner of Azkaban- possibly Order of the Phoenix; not yet sure.)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so, hi.
> 
> It's a minute hasn't it?
> 
> Yes, I'm very much shocked I'm alive as well.
> 
> I have reasons for the delay, promise;
> 
> 1) I'm a fucking slacker. 2) The story that follows this one IS KICKING MY FUCKING ASS and I'd really rather get all of this one up for you all, and then that one, but I'm not even sure that's going to happen- apologies.
> 
> So, basically, yes I suck, yes updates are slow, I'm so sorry.
> 
> Harry Potter and his fantabulous world does Not and will Never belong to me. I'm just testing the waters a bit. 
> 
> Oh, and mistakes are my fault. Go easy, I'm fragile.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

_**Chapter 20** _

  
“Ye alrigh’, Harry?” Hagrid questions for the fourth time just that afternoon. He's answered by a nod.

  
They're currently on the right end of the man's hut farthest away from the castle, nestled mere feet from where the man's enormous pumpkin patch resides, the bare few husks of which still remaining decomposing into the ground to be reborn the following year. Hagrid's sizeable mass is hunkered down atop a rotting tree trunk before the flickering fire at his feet. There's a cauldron before him, resting just a foot above the licking flames. Padfoot is currently practically sprawled across Harry, whom is settled in the cool grass a few feet off to the side of the heat source; And had been since he'd arrived on the grounds surrounding Hagrid's hut.

  
Fang, jowls steadily dripping saliva in a semblance of a trail, is cozied up against the raven's relatively free right side. He nudges at the Slytherin's hip with the tip of his cool, damp nose. Harry obligingly lays his free hand atop the boarhound’s wrinkled head.

  
Externally, Harry's indifferent expression is even more blank that typically, lacking any such semblance of emotion. Even his bright green eyes are much duller than usual. It was worrying the half-giant.

  
Internally, however, Harry is in absolute disarray. His emotional center is completely tipped off its axis, threatening to overwhelm him. He blames such weakness for his next words.

''Someone went through my trunk.'' He murmurs after a lengthy pause of silence. Hagrid's wide-eye gaze swivels in his direction.

  
''Some'ne went through yer thin's?!'' The half-giant exclaims. ''Why haven' ya said nothin' to nobody, Harry! Ya needa tell a teacher!''

  
''No.'' Harry shakes his head in the negative. He unconsciously scoots in closer to Padfoot and Fang's comforting forms. Dark orbs don't miss the movement.

  
''An' why no'?'' Hagrid inquires incredulously.

  
''Because.'' The First Year hesitates. ''Because, it doesn't matter.''

  
''Cock a' bull!''

  
''It doesn't matter.'' Harry insists. Hagrid, sensing a losing battle, admits undesired defeat.  
  
\--...--

Marcus Flint is seated before the hearth when Harry reluctantly slips into the Common Room that night.

  
The shaggy-headed Potter is a bit startled to find the older there. He'd made the easy decision while at Hagrid's to sneak in during the dinner feast since he's usually the only one that would dare skip the meal- despite protests. He'd never seen his Captain, especially, skip any meals.  
''Harry.'' The sixth year nods in greeting, settling into a more inclined position in his plush green-ebony chair.

  
''Captain.'' The raven returns. He makes certain to keep a bit of weary distance between him and the older boy.

  
''Just call me Marcus or Flint.'' His fellow Slytherin waves his formality off, not for the first time. He settles into a more inclined position in his plush seat.

  
Dark eyes regard him calculatingly. ''So, Harry. Any reason you aren't at the feast?''

  
''I ate at Hagrid's.'' Harry responds clinically. Which isn't a stretch of truth, per se. The half-giant _had_ made him down some tea and bits of homemade pastry. Unfortunately, said baked good happened to consume of the man's infamous, inconsumable rock cakes.

  
''Hmm. You going home for holiday?''

  
Harry's a bit caught off guard by the rogue question. He'd made the easy decision to stay at the castle during the break, least he most likely never return.

  
''No. And you?'' Hagrid had been attempting to assuredly teach him that asking questions was completely reasonable, but it'd long-since been beaten into him that he wasn't to use his voice for anything needless or otherwise arbitrary. It was especially odd to speak so much in the months he'd been at Hogwarts.

  
''Going home. My mum would be furious if I didn't. Most of Slytherin House will be, I'd say.'' Flint muses. ''Think you can survive without me or Draco to force you to eat or keep you alive during practice?'' The older teases. They're both aware that the raven takes care of himself during anything regarding Quidditch, and otherwise.

  
Harry subtly tenses at Malfoy's name.

  
''Seriously, though, Harry.'' Marcus' voice drops a bit in seriousness. ''You take care of yourself, alright?'' Blunt, concerned, but not wanting to pry, the older boy gains his feet and plods out of the room, through the barrier leading out of the Slytherin Common Room. Harry regards his departing back in bemusement.

\--...--

  
Harry was frustrated.

  
Thus far, all he'd managed to gather on the situation regarding the slight package Hagrid had retrieved was that Gringotts, the supposedly impenetrable wizarding bank, had been broken into just after he and Hagrid's visit there. Where the half-giant had retrieved the unknown item from the very vault that'd been broken into under orders from Professor Dumbledore himself.

  
The _Daily Prophet_ had mentioned that it could very well be the cause of dark witches and wizards. Harry, after extensive reading on the War his parents had been involved in, was inclined to agree.

  
There's absolutely no possible way Voldemort, AKA He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, had been killed off after the Great Wizarding War. How could someone so powerful- nearly as much as Albus Dumbledore himself- simply be gone? And he'd had a vast number of followers that could easily rise while he's unable and preform dastardly deeds that could assist in him arising to tyranny once more. Or, who's to say that he's not simply out there, lying in wait, broadening his forces in preparation to strike firmer and all mightier?

  
And what of the Cerberus guarding the forbidden third floor? There had to be a link between the notoriously vicious animal and Hagrid the Animal Lover's retrieval of a suspicious item for the Headmaster himself. Also, the trapdoor the three-headed dog had been surely guarding?  
He'd managed to get a name out of Hagrid, the poor amiable man quite loose-lipped during the most inconvenient- for himself- times: Nicholas Flamel. Which, to his misfortunate, he'd yet to discover. 

  
Harry had been doing his research. He'd spend countless hours in the library during free periods after classes pouring over history tomes, books on Gringotts itself, of the Wizarding World before and after his birth, on the Dark Lord and his followers... And during the veil of night, he'd snuck into the Restricted Section of the library for reading material he couldn't access as a mere dull First Year. Only students of higher grade level, with express permission, were permitted into the darker reading selection. Harry didn't dare ask for access.

  
It'd be mighty suspicious for the esteemed Harry Potter to take an interest in the Forbidden books, after all.

  
Unfortunately, on top of his belongings being searched, his abundance of research had him completely on edge. His senses never seized in shrieking at him. _Every_ person he passed was a suspect to his mind's eye; Teachers and students alike. Though, he had it narrowed down a margin. That didn't, sadly, comfort him all that much.

  
He didn't particularly figure it was a student. After all, the third floor was banned to all that aren't a teacher. Though, given that Harry was able to gain access to the floor, that didn't amount to anything. (Fred and George Weasley, deft due to their infamously-brilliant schemes, were a prime example.) That did, unfortunately, leave the numerous teachers.

  
He didn't believe it was Professor McGonagall- and not even due to the fact she was, despite admittedly frightening what with her shrewdness, one of his favorite lecturers. There was sure preference towards her House held in her heart, but the world isn't all black and white. She had pride and fairness above all, at least. She was a stern woman as well. Not even in mere personality, but her morals. Rule, let alone conduct, breaking wasn't exactly her forte.

  
Professor Dumbledore was towards the bottom of his list as well. Why would he send Hagrid to gather something that he himself had requested, after all? He was The Most Powerful wizard of the age, let alone the most influential, he could have gathered it himself to begin with.

  
Professor Snape, however, he was a bit suspicious of. Not even entirely because of his utter loathing of Harry.

  
The rest of the teachers, he couldn't really see wanting to steal the unknown item either. Well, possibly Quirrell. The most timid and unexpected aren't always innocent, after all.

  
Overall, his added stress over the situation, on top of everything else,- including the disruption of his belongings' privacy- left him _absolutely_ _exhausted_. He'd even had mind that his over-taxed body might even possibly allow him to sleep, but he'd been too weary to step foot inside the dorm room. Each morning he was forced to do so, he made certain to sneak in either before everyone was awake, or after all his fellow First Years had left for breakfast. He'd also, during his late-night traverses through the castle, been searching for an abandoned location to relocate it for the time being, if only until he'd mastered several locking charms to ward it with.

  
His trepidation also lead the Potter to distancing himself even further from his peers. He hadn't been able to meet even Draco's impressionable gray gaze. He was used to keeping to himself, though.

  
However, he was trying his damndest not to completely drive a wedge between him and his.... friends? acquaintances? fellow students. Winter break was looming on the approaching horizon, and he didn't wish to dampen them for anyone. Even though every time one of his fellow Slytherin's got too close, he'd tense and a burble of anxiety would arise, fester, within him. That didn't keep him from ordering presents for them, though.

  
After all, he actually had a reason, a means, to celebrate this year.

  
\--...--

  
That night, Harry slips out into the gloom of night beneath the concealment of his father's Invisibility Cloak.

  
He didn't have any particular destination in mind, merely a desire, an itch, to escape the confines of the Common Room.

  
Unfortunately, it would seem as though he's not the only one out for a stroll.

  
He hears them before he catches sight of them; Squirrelly Professor Quirrell and gloomy Professor Snape. The former is currently being pinned in place, features scrunched in muggy terror, by the latter- whom is regarding him with a distasteful frigidness.

  
''S-Severus, I-I thought...'' The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher stutters frightfully.

  
''You don't want me as your enemy, Quirrell.''

  
''W-what do you m-mean?''

  
''You know perfectly well what I mean.'' The Head of Slytherin House replies silkily, searchingly. Harry skirts around the two men, not wishing to be too close for fear of being caught. He's invisible, after all, not intangible.

  
He freezes, however, when his Potions lecturer's gaze abruptly pivots in his direction. He's not quite staring at him, merely through the spot where his right shoulder resides, but it's a bit too eerily close. Harry cautiously steps backwards in miniscule movements, just in time to evade the hand that slashes through the air where he'd once been standing.

  
It's pure adrenaline-terror that fuels his blind parade down the corridors. Which is what inevitably leads him into the abandoned classroom he's currently standing in.

  
The room is mostly bare, except for a few desks cast off to the side, along with instantaneous inconsequential trinkets and bobs. However, the main guidance of attention is planted just off from the center of the space, closer to the wall.

  
There's a mirror towering at a mighty several feet, requesting audience. It consumed of golden trim outside the glass of the reflection part itself, three spires raised in a crown at the top. There's, he squints, an inscription engraved just below, beneath a chevron in the metal.  
 _ **Erised stra ehru oyt cafru oyt on wohsi**_ , it reads. Harry regards the engraving with a furrowed intensity, padding closer cautiously. Only to freeze.

  
It's not his own mere, despite the Invisibility Cloak still being drooped over his shoulders, reflection that's greeting him. There's a beautiful woman at his image's left, a man to the right. The woman has red hair spiraling just passed her shoulders and eerily familiar, yet not, bright green eyes. The man has fluffy, untamable ebony locks that nearly defy gravity itself, along with hazel eyes. Both are smiling down at the mirror Harry with a profound emotion.

  
As he watches, a silhouette of ebony slips seamlessly between the images' legs. Furry and possessing intelligent gray orbs. _Padfoot._

  
''Ah, I wondered if you would also stumble upon this particular room, Harry.'' An aged voice sounds from off to the side. Harry startles.  
Professor Dumbledore, clad in his infamous purple robes and disarming smile, is stood several feet to his left, regarding him with that characteristic twinkle that so-frequents his gaze.

  
''I see you,'' the bearded man teases lightly, ''like so many before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised. Have you yet realized what it does?''

  
Harry, despite somehow able to be seen by the Headmaster, doesn't remove the Invisibility Cloak. He shakes his head in reply. He has a few theories in the short moments he was able to regard the Mirror, but nothing yet sufficient.

  
''Let me give you a clue.'' The beard-clad man offers, stepping lightly forward to regard the reflection at a bit of an angle. ''The happiest man on Earth would look into the mirror and see only himself, exactly as he is.''

  
''It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts.'' The elder gent continues. ''Now you,'' he shifts slightly to regard Harry, ''who have never known your family, you see them standing beside you. But,'' his voice turns a miniscule stern, ''remember this, Harry. This mirror gives us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away in front of it, even gone mad. That is why,'' there's an indecipherable purpose to his tone, ''tomorrow it will be moved to a new home. I'd suggest you not to go looking for it again. It does not do well to dwell on dreams.''

  
 _Why would I?_ Harry ponders as he later retraces his steps back down to the Dungeons. _It's the desire of my heart, not my own._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting real close to Christmas! Only a couple chapters ahhhh.
> 
> (Fun fact: When I first wrote this chapter, I forgot the Mirror scene and had to go back and add it *facepalm*.)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honey, I'm homeeeee.
> 
> Yeah, I'm slacking, I know. The story after this one is a real kick in the pants to write. Apologies.
> 
> But, hey, Christmas is coming up in a couple chapters! And a depressing amount of effort was put into it.
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy! :)

_**Chapter 21** _

  
_Boy,_

  
_I'd so hoped you would have met your pathetic end in that cupboard of yours._

  
_There will be punishment should you return from wherever freakish place you are._

  
Two complete sentences, twenty six words. Such an insignificant total that was capable of sending such a vast amount of _**Terror**_ through one Harry Potter.

  
There was no address to him explicitly, nor a sender, but he didn't need one to know who it was from.

  
Uncle Vernon had scrawled the threat, _promise_ , overtop of one of his Hogwarts acceptance letters. When Harry had first received the letter via an unknown, grubby owl that was most certainly not Hedwig that morning, he'd been confused. Especially since he practically _never_ received mail. The one instance he had, it was during his first couple days at the castle and had been from Hagrid, inviting him over that Saturday- which then lead to his on-going visits with the groundskeeper.

  
His uncommon getting mail had been the entertainment of the entire Slytherin table, in fact. Draco and Flint had been especially, being the blunt and a bit nosy individuals they are, curious.

  
Unfortunately, they weren't granted an answer pertaining to what it was. As soon as Harry had caught sight of the unknown owl, and the broken, familiar scarlet emblem sealing the battered envelope, icy-cold dread had immediately flooded down his spinal column. It merely festered when he managed to open it beneath their prying, inquiring eyes.

  
Inside was a copy of his acceptance letter. However, it'd been scribbled over in his Uncle's nigh-illegible penmanship in a foreboding crimson ink. All inside the envelope, however, were ashes. Ones, he had a hunch, that'd once been his First Year letters. What else could it be? Harry didn't have any possessions under the Dursley's roof.

  
The promise had tunneled his vision until all he could hear, feel, was the _thump thump thump_ of his heart pumping furiously through his eardrums. He could only vaguely hear the muted _wh-wh-wh_ of his uproarious surroundings, including his fellow serpents. He'd numbly fled the Great Hall before he even realized.

  
He wasn't seen for the rest of that Sunday.

\--...--

  
''-Mother has been vying for my return home. Of, course, me being her only child, why would she not?'' Draco sniffs.

  
Harry hums a nod in agreement.

  
Malfoy had been talking at him for the better part of ten minutes. They, along with the entirety of Slytherin House, were gathered around the Common Room.

  
Professor Snape was stalking about, gathering roster from each year of whom would be returning home for the anticipated Christmas break, and whom would be staying at the castle. Thus far, it seems as though Harry would be the only one in his House that wouldn't be boarding the Hogwarts Express- minus the fifth year Prefect, Percy Weasley. His Head of House was sure to be less than thrilled of such fact.

  
''Are you going home to those... Muggle relatives of yours, Potter?'' Draco questions. Despite the fact he'd asked the spectacled boy variations of the same asking no less than eight times since the day previous. They're both seated at the back table that Harry often frequented during study, reading, and other such sessions- during the late gloom of night especially. 

  
Harry twitches at the use of his patronym.

  
''Call me Harry, please.'' He insists politely. It was of the only particular things he'd requested from the other boy, on a number of occasions. The blond has the wits to appear sheepish at his actions. ''No, I am not.''

  
Draco frowns, stormy gaze flitting across his blank features. It's an expression that practically declares that the very notion of remaining at the castle was a ludicrous notion. ''I am certain Mother would not mind if you came along with me to the Manor...''

  
''I don't want to impose.'' Harry shakes his head in polite denial, shifting to the side atop his plush seat in minor discomfort.

  
''Mr. Malfoy, I'm certain you wish to return home for the holidays?'' Professor Snape's unmistakable drawl interrupts anything the blond might have voiced. Despite being phrased as an inquiry, it's addressed as more of a statement of known fact than anything.

  
''Yes, sir.'' Draco inclines his head. It's then that Harry recalls, not for the first time, the instance that the aristocratic boy had deemed to inform him that Severus Snape was, in fact, his godfather.

  
Dark orbs turn next, though albeit reluctantly, onto Harry. ''And what of you, Mr. Potter? I'm certain you're thrilled to return to the spotlight of home-life.''

  
''No, Professor, sir. I'm staying.'' Harry's ever-mindful to keep his gaze respectfully lowered to the floating bit of parchment trailing his Potions lecturer. As such, he misses the exchange briefly shared between godson and father-figure. He carefully doesn't meet Draco's gaze even after the imposing man sweeps on to the next student with a swoosh of his dark robes.

\--...--

The days leading up to the excitement-oriented winter holidays were a bit bitter sweet, admittedly.

  
Christmas had never held much merit for Harry over the years. His take on religion was a neutral affair that he didn’t all-together dwell much on. The Dursley’s, however, are Christian.

  
The holiday of cheer and spirit had never been much appealing to Harry in his lifetime, though. Why would it be? All the ‘celebrating’ he’d ever done was spend 24-48 hours preparing a certifiable feast for his relatives. He’d never received any semblance of gift, nor did he expect any.

  
The very idea of being capable of offering presents to others on this particular year, though, has made him more- dare he say it- excited than he’d ever imagined possible. Maybe it was the sheer freedom of being able to possibly, hopefully, grant a means of happiness to those that were an influence to him. He hoped, in any case.

  
If not, then surely they would inform him.

  
Either way, though, he planned to go all out, just because he could.

  
Unfortunately, the only funds available to him was the fortune his parents had left him in their departing. Which, while no insignificant amount of money, made him uncomfortable to use at leisure. His parents surely hadn’t expected Him to veraciously waste it. Which, purchasing gifts for the few people that actually, for whatever reason, tolerated Harry wasn’t squandering in the least. The principle of the matter remained that he didn’t feel comfortable relying on his parents’ remaining currency.

  
Maybe his Aunt or Uncle would allow him to pick up a few odd jobs over the Summer.

  
_Most likely not._

  
After all, that would allow him a sense of freedom if he were to have funds. The only time he’d had any beneath their roof were the times he was shooed off so the Dursley’s could quite happily banish any notion of his existence while he trekked to markets and other stores. Even then he was given a time limit. He had to prepare dinner,- if takeout wasn’t the option of the evening- after all.

  
Already, the weight of coins taken from his parents’ vault weighed like a physical being overtop of his head. He’d spared no turn gift wise which meant that he’d had to shell out numerous credits...

  
It would be worth it, though, in the end. He hoped it would, at least.

\--...--

  
Harry is questioned time and time again during the weeks leading up to Christmas holiday whether or not he would be remaining at the castle, or traveling back to his relatives'. (Well, admittedly, it went both ways.) It was as though, if he was asked enough, he'd abruptly decide to change his mind.

  
He was, in fact, nearly the only one in his House that wouldn't be away for the foreseeable two weeks. Which would, unfortunately, leave him- at least in his mind's eye- vulnerable to Professor Snape; Or anyone else, for that matter.

  
Though, it seemed as though Fred, George, and their older brother Percy the Fifth Year Prefect- and Ron, a fellow First Year in Hufflepuff, would be staying as well. There had been a definite gleam in the twins eyes when they discovered the young Potter would also be remaining at the school. It held a foreboding promise of numerous shenanigans to come.

  
To Harry's elation, the gifts he'd ordered had steadily been trickling in. Hedwig and a few other owls- when the load proved to be too cumbersome- had been kind enough to drop off his purchased parcels in an abandoned classroom that he'd discovered during one of his numerous mid-night wanderings. It was tucked away a distance between the Dungeons, leading up to the Great Hall. Thankfully, it appeared to not have been touched in at least a decade.

  
Harry had managed, by no easy feat, to sneak his trunk into a subtle corner of the room immediately after happening upon it. It was a bit risky on his part to sneak off before his fellows to retrieve his uniform for the day- even beneath the cover of his Father's Invisibility Cloak- or any other trinkets he needed. But, really, he'd been sneaking about the castle throughout the entirety of the school year thus far.

  
He was still unable to look at his trunk in the same manor after it was broke into, though.

  
The Potter had never had to worry about belongings growing up at the Dursley's. Well, minus his Cloak, but he was paranoid-cautious to keep it sequestered away beneath a nook in the overhead rafters of his cupboard that couldn't be detected unless you knew where it was located. Uncle Vernon and Dudley couldn't entirely fit inside the cramped space easily anyways. And Aunt Petunia, despite being petite, was relatively tall for a woman and would have a difficult time maneuvering within the limited area. Not that one of class such as she, nor her darling husband and son, would deem to crawl about the dank space beneath their staircase.

  
Harry hadn't truly had anything that he could call rightfully His until he'd met Hagrid, which introduced him to the Wizarding World his parents apparently belonged to, along with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Which, he muses, could very well be the reason he'd had an episode upon finding his possessions blatantly refiled through...

  
All they'd taken, thankfully, was the leftover sweets he'd purchased on the Hogwarts Express. It was clear that everything else- mostly books, along with his robes and his Muggle clothes that had once belonged to Dudley, and a few other odds and ends pertaining to his classes- had been sifted through, but remained otherwise unbothered for the most part.

  
Unfortunately, however, that still meant that he didn't have any extra food for the days he couldn't quite manage to brave the physically and mentally taxing Great Hall. Or when he returned to the Dursley's- though, he could surely purchase more on the return to Privet Drive; he hoped so, in any case.

  
Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. Harry had at least managed to find a place that would allow him space for his belongings. It was most likely a bit suspicious for his dorm mates to see his hefty trunk not alongside his bedside any longer, but it's not as though he much utilizes his space anyhow. He gets, at most, several hours of sleep a week. Which most of the time was either gathered in a far, out-of-the-way sector of the library, or during late-night reading and study sessions in the Common Room. Along with the rare occasions he nodded off in History of Magic. Luckily, he'd managed to awaken before he managed to miss too much of the ghost-man's droning-lecture; Not that Harry hadn't already read the class's textbook. Twice, in fact.

  
Luckily, he had been sufficiently distracted of late. All his teachers had taken to piling on homework due both before and after the holidays. Which he, admittedly, would finish relatively quickly each time. Beyond that, though, had been spent on Quidditch practices- which proved to be quite chilling even when it wasn't entirely snowing. The Potter had also taken to visiting Hagrid two or three times a week instead of the one.

  
Harry felt guilty about intruding on the amiable man, but the half-giant had made it abundantly clear that he didn't mind in the least. Besides, half the time, the gameskeeper was away tending to his numerous duties whenever the raven was at his hut.  
  
The reason for his frequent hours seated outside the man's home was simple, really. Hagrid had been kind enough to endow to him the fine art of wood crafting whenever Harry had foreshadowed his struggle in contemplating a few of his gifts. Which lead to the half-giant offering the trade as a suggestion. 

  
The adolescent had been utilizing the new-found ability ever since. He was quite handy with it, surprisingly. Even more so than his teacher. Though, Hagrid had had to assist on a few occasions. The lengthy man had even involved a shockingly willing Professor McGonagall when specific charms and transfiguration spells above both boy and man's skill capacity had been needed. The Deputy Headmistress had been more amused than anything, Hagrid had assured him.

  
Harry, for the first time ever, had hope. Even if it did pertain to whether those around him would enjoy his gifts.

  
He'd also been able to spend more time with Fred and George in the weeks leading up to holiday. Well, more like the doppelgangers had taken to seemingly trailing him. The three of them would spend time flitting across the Quidditch pitch, or even traverse the grounds between the castle and edge of Black Lake, if it wasn't being used at the time; Often utilizing bludgers or even the Quaffel. (Harry had proved more than once to be a surprisingly decent aim with a bat. And maneuverable enough to score several points passed the Weasleys' guard.) They'd even have an audience from rogue other students a couple of times- mostly colleagues or relatives of the twins.

  
The mischievous duo had also taken to inviting themselves over to the Slytherin table during meals if they were feeling especially bothersome. Many a time Harry had caught Draco Malfoy or another one of his peers open their mouth as if to offer some form of comment, only to take one look at the redheads or Harry himself and swiftly turn away. Professor Snape had also been boring particularly murderous glares into the side of his head on such occasions the gingers table-hopped. It, thankfully, wasn't an often occasion due to Harry skipping 70-100% of meals.

  
Harry had even been ~~drug~~ invited up to Ravenclaw Tower. Which held a beatific, artistic blend of blue and bronze. The space was similar, yet vastly different, than the Slytherin Common Room. It had numerous cushy arm chairs, couches, loveseats, and several end tables neatly spaced about. There was even more furniture than in his House's leisure area, but it seemed... fitting, somehow. The entire expanse was what he'd imagine to be a cozy librarian or book-worm's dream space. Which was fitting for knowledge-hungry Ravenclaws.

  
The look-alikes had taken the time to, after a quite thorough tour of the dorms, teach him several wizarding forms of entertainment. They taught him the art of different prank skills, along with Exploding Snap, and Wizards Chess. Both older boys were actually quite proficient at the latter, if a bit sporadic. Their younger brother, Ron,- who was also drug into their gatherings on a few of occasions- however, had practically mastered the game. He was the one, after a spell of weariness around the Potter, to mostly teach Harry about the ins and outs of the violent board game. Though, the raven-haired boy had also went a few rounds with a reluctant Percy, the oldest Weasley attending Hogwarts.

  
Although he'd sat beside him or even worked with him in class, Ron was still a bit weary around him at first. Fred and George usually made up for it, though, via their characteristic goofy personalities. It was, admittedly, a bit refreshing to call the look-alikes what he could almost refer to as... friends. He didn't want to assume, though. it wasn't his place.

  
Percy also wasn't all-together bad company. Despite sharing a House, Harry didn't often times catch sight of the Proud Prefect. And when he did, the older was usually waltzing down the hallway, eating in the Great Hall, or in the library. The redhead now offered him an amiable nod whenever he passed by him, though. They weren't close by any stretch of the imagine, and hadn't shared much conversation outside of Wizards Chess or vague discussions of books, but it was more than he could ever ask for.

  
Harry was still very much most comfortable around Fred and George. Maybe it was their refreshing sense of humor and all-together goofiness, or their charisma, but they were... pleasant to be around. Not that Percy, or Ron, were bad company, they just weren't as approachable or lax to be around for the noirette.

  
The young Potter had also learned that once you meet a Weasley, you'll eventually meet all of them. He'd exchanged polite conversation with Mrs. Weasley, their mother, during what Ron had referred to as the 'floo network'. Which entails utilizing the fireplace and chat with the person(s) contacted on the opposing side. Incidentally, the hail didn't work in the Common Room,- students weren't allowed such interactions through the fireplace with the outside world- but Professor Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw, had taken surprising pity on the Weasley's. They wouldn't be returning home for Christmas this year, after all, on account of their parents and younger sister, Ginny, visiting their older sibling, Charlie; Whom works as a dragonologist in Romania.

  
Mrs. '' _call me Molly, dear_ '' Weasley proved to be a very charming woman. She'd also, to his utter bafflement, seemed to take an immediate liking to Harry. And not even due to his 'Boy Who Lived' status like so many other adults liked to take fascinated-advantage of.

  
Mr. Weasley was just as amiable, if a bit more rambunctious due to his absolute fascination with any and all things relating to Muggles. He also seemed to quite like Harry in their limited interactions so far, though.

  
The young Potter had taken to exchanging weekly letters with Mrs. Weasley after she'd been positively scandalized when the twins, oh-so-innocently of course, let slip that he'd only received a scarce amount of mail throughout the entirety of the school year thus far.

  
It was quite refreshing, actually. The noirette had never been distinctly comfortable around adults, but Mrs. Weasley had managed to bypassed a bare in his defenses. She was a rather impressive, intelligent firecracker of a woman. Also a marvelous cook, he'd been informed. She'd also taken to sharing tales of family recipes upon learning of his own fondness for cooking.

  
Overall, despite being occupied what felt like every hour of every day, Harry felt a bit more... surrounded than he ever had in his entire life. In a way that wasn't stifling, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I recently painted a cover for the story that follows this one! If I figure out how to, I may put it up for you all to see it. We'll see.
> 
> Hope this was enjoyable. And, again, apologies for the huge gaps in updates.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, and welcome to the itty bitty chappie committee. Leave your shoes at the door, if you'd please.
> 
> Hey, guys lol. Here's ya'll a chapter. Again, I'm so sorry they're taking forever. I'm gonna attempt to try to post one a week or so- feel free to kick my ass into gear if I slack.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

_**Chapter 22** _

  
The Great Hall was absolutely stunning.

  
It's already glistening beauty was steadily being decorated with towering pine trees. He'd seen Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick decorating them with gleaming bulbs and active décor that, to his utter amazement, moved animatedly. Holly leaves were posted throughout the entirety of the space, even throughout the outer corridors littered throughout the castle; Which held a grand display of garland, ribbon and wreaths. There were particularly ginormous wreaths displayed proudly on the sentinel-esque doors of the castle and Great Hall.

  
Hagrid had even decorated his hut. There wasn't precisely enough real-estate inside his quaint home for a Christmas tree, but Harry had seen fit to still sneak in a four foot bit of pine. He'd even shyly asked a twinkle-eyed Professor McGonagall for a spell to decorate it in tasteful crimson glass bulbs and cheery golden garland beforehand. The half-giant had been a Gryffindor, after all.

  
There were also uneven bits of green garland strewn a bit half-hazardously along the borders of the wooden house's outside windows.

  
Christmas cheer was certainly in the air throughout the castle. Classes weren't in session for two weeks, which was seemingly enough to brighten most of the students in itself. There were still the assignments due when the holidays were over, but the season seemed to cause a majority of the students to forget about such fact.

  
Harry was mostly finished with his gifts. He only had a few last minute hesitancies, but other than that, he was mostly just waiting for a few last-minute packages to arrive. The rest were all wrapped and placed in the classroom he kept his trunk in.

  
Even though it was only him and Percy Weasley in Slytherin who'd stayed at the castle during holiday, he still felt more reassured leaving his belongings in a less vulnerable space. At least until he had time to learn several locking charms; Hopefully ones even the elder years would have a difficult time with, if he could manage.

  
He hadn't had much time to further research Nicholas Flamel. Fred and George having partially relocated him into Ravenclaw Tower a few times a week. A majority of the time, the three of them- joined occasionally by Ron or an unwilling Percy- would take up stock in the Common Room, but they'd also convene in the dormitory as well. They'd also take up Hufflepuff's as well, though not frequently. Harry had even snuck Fred and George down into the Dungeons. They'd been positively gleeful of such fact, until the younger boy promptly informed them that the entrance quite enjoyed switching locations at its leisure. Which, yes indeed, was quite frustrating at times.

  
There were numerous games of Exploding Snap, Gobstones and even more rounds of Wizards Chess played each day leading up to Christmas.

  
Harry's favorite pastime of all, though, was when the Weasleys would share stories. The twins quite enjoyed regaling them with over-dramatized tales of their shenanigans over the years- despite their siblings' groans. But also would beguiling them with stories about Quidditch, what the higher grade levels of school were like for a curious Ron and Potter, along with their desire to be business men. The latter had surprised Harry a bit, until it hadn't. The doppelgangers were quite witty and could most likely chat up even the Devil himself if they so wished. It wasn't all too unrealistic of a dream. Especially one in the form of a joke and gags shop.

  
Ron's stories weren't as interesting as the twins', but they were very informational. The ginger was quite airy and hadn't much to hide. Which lead to him practically giving away his and his family's entire life story. That they had two older brothers, and one younger sister. Bill Weasley, the eldest, is a curse-breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank in Egypt. While Charlie, second oldest, works with dragons in Romania. Then the baby of the Weasley clan, Ginny- whom would be joining them at Hogwarts for her First Year after the Summer.

  
Percy, on the occasions the twins managed to wrangle him into participating, wasn't much inclined to abandon his beloved books,- Harry could relate- but he could occasionally be needled into participating. His regaling, much to the woe of his siblings, usually pertained to the text and novels he'd read, but also his desire to join the Ministry out of Hogwarts. It was an admirable passion, Harry mused. Though he, a fellow knowledge-seeker, so wished the Prefect would take the occasional bout of time to step away from his relentless studying and interact with the surrounding world.

  
(There must be something in his body language or something similar, as the ginger can be more often found with his nose not buried in his book not long after being around Harry. The twins and Ron congratulate him on something that they, their sister, or even their parents hadn't been able to successfully accomplish.)

  
Harry, however, didn't often share. The times he could be wheedled into it, it usually pertained to Padfoot and Fang. Or his visits or what he'd recently learned from Hagrid about the art of wood crafting.

  
''What of your favorite Christmas, Harry?'' Ron had asked during one of their late-night sharing's. It had been during one of their very first meet-ups, before students had boarded the Hogwarts Express to return to their place of residence, even. Unnoticed by the younger ginger and Potter, the twins shared a look from their spot on one of the spongy couches in the Ravenclaw Common Room.

  
''Don't have one.'' Harry shrugged nigh-immediately. He didn't even necessarily need to ponder over it to know he didn't have any necessarily... fond memories of the holiday. Or any holiday, honestly.

  
''Not one?!'' Ron echoed incredulously.

  
''Never really celebrated it.'' Harry admits, nearly to himself, with a shrug. The Weasleys gathered around him break into a scandal.

  
''Never celebrated Christmas?!'' Fred exclaims. 

  
''Bloody hell.'' Ron states with feeling, gaping at his fellow First Year.

  
The twins exchange an indecipherable glance. After a moment where it seems as though they speak to each other wordlessly, telepathically, they share synchronized nods.

  
''We'll celebrate with you, Harry.'' They vow.

  
''Yeah!'' Ron enthuses, bright blue gaze vibrant with elation. ''You could have a Weasley Christmas! They're the _best_!''

  
Harry hadn't been nearly as forthcoming afterwards. Not that he particularly was to begin with. Ron wasn't the problem, not at all, it was just that Fred and George and even Percy seemed all too perceptive about his barely managing the Muggle family members he lives with, nor his life with them. 

  
No one could know just how **Pathetic** , weak, he was. Especially these people who actually seemed to- to.... _care_ , in some peculiar manner, about him.

  
No, he didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Or in general.

\--...--

  
Padfoot loved the snow.

  
It was quite a sight to behold: A mighty ebony dog of stature nearly bigger than Harry himself, bounding gleefully in a rather stallion-like fashion through the cool kiss of ivory. It was a sight the young Potter could rather happily stay in for the remainder of eternity if he had the opportunity.

  
His canine companion had, to Harry's immense relief, put on weight during his stay with Hagrid. No longer did his ribcage protrude from his abdomen, nor was there a glimmer of unhealthiness- even through the cleansing spell from Professor McGonagall and bath from Harry himself. There was a definite cheer about the hound that the boy was immensely relieved to witness.

  
(Though, it most likely helped that Hagrid and any persuasive students and teachers alike that happened by him or Fang were rather indulgent when it came to treats.)  
It was rather amusing to watch as the dog would streak across the snow, stirring it up in his wake. He'd leap and bound and roll about, much like a particularly energetic pup.  
Fang could often be found romping around with him. Though, the boarhound wasn't particularly fond of the element. The two canines had hit it off so well that he didn't seem to mind, so long as he was able to frolic with his new-found friend.

  
There were a few occasions that Harry would be nudged in the middle of his late-night reading, working, or wandering by a damp nose. It seemed as though Padfoot had taken it upon himself to take seeming advantage of the holidays and sneak inside the castle. Hagrid hadn't commented over the matter, so the raven-haired boy hadn't either. Though, he had to be especially cautious during the nights his furry companion discovered him during his trapesing- though, they'd decreased after the twins' insistence that he seize the opportunity to camp out with them- about the school. His Father's Cloak was only just big enough for the both of them, but it required an awkward bit of shuffling or the Potter to climb atop the animal's back and well... It wasn't the most all-around comfortable of affairs.

  
Overall, Harry- though he would never admit it- quite enjoyed the instances that his hairy friend snuck in to keep him company. Even if Professor Snape, or any of the other teachers, would be _livid_ if they discovered him.

  
Padfoot, and Fang, could also be found bounding about them during the instances Fred and George challenged Ron and Harry to a snowball fight. It was a bit of an uneven affair, what with the doppelgangers spelling their projectiles more often than not, but the First Years managed to put up as good as they've got. Harry knew more spells than his fellow pre-teen, which gave them a bit of leverage, but Ron had a firmer arm and dodging technique.

  
Fred and George, having already met Padfoot, took tp Padfoot's presence well- and vise versa. Ron was a bit hesitant around him the first couple of instances he was around him, though was mollified over the over-sized pooch taking up content residence about Harry. It was also a bit of a difficult sight to be intimidated by the overly-excitable pooch. Still, it took plenty of convincing to get him to pet the relatively docile canine. After that, though, it became normalcy to see him greet the hound with greeting pets.  
Percy, however, wanted no part in the dog, instead ignoring his very existence as much as physically possible.

  
There was one such instance that Professor Quirrell had been stuttering by and the twins subtly charmed balls of snow to trail him into the castle, bouncing harmlessly off the back of his peculiar turban with his every step.

  
Professor Snape also happened to be stalking along during one instance when Harry was enjoying the weather with an especially exuberant Padfoot. Luckily, the man seemed perturbed by being around the dog's mere presence to offer any scathing remarks.

  
Overall, it was the best holiday Harry could wish for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is so close! :D 
> 
> If anyone is excited 🤷♀️ .
> 
> Raise your hand if you didn't know Bill Weasley's full name is William Arthur ''Bill'' Weasley ✋✋✋✋
> 
> (Fun fact: It's actually Christmas during the story following this one too.)


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.
> 
> Shitty day, have a chapter.
> 
> Sooo, Christmas in July... Eh, there's much much much weirder out there.
> 
> Thank you to everyone that has been offering support to this bitch! It means the world!
> 
> Hope this is somehow enjoyable! :)

_**C** _ _**hapter 23** _

  
Harry's awake with Fred, George, Ron and Percy as Christmas Eve switches to Christmas Day.

  
He's conscious to watch out one of the high-rise Ravenclaw Tower's windows as the sun rose to illuminate the freshly fallen flakes of ivory dusting across the breeze, flitting to the anticipatory Earth below.

  
He's, also, the first one to settle upright in bed in preparation for the day, having stayed up all night- not an unusual occurrence, admittedly- placing his gifts out throughout the castle beneath the curtain of the Cloak.

  
It's Ron, a bit surprisingly, whom is the first to awaken. He shifts onto his side so that he's facing Harry with a yawn. He blinks over at his fellow pre-teen, before realization apparently dawns on him in the form of a manifesting smile. ''IT'S CHRISTMAS!'' He cheers, startling Percy awake from his space a few beds down to the left. Fred and George pop into abrupt existence to practically tackle Ron. Which proceeds to escalate into an impromptu wrestling match across the blanket-strewn floor. It's only when Ron, struggling through the covers constrained about his waist, confining his maneuverability, cries a variation of '' _Uncle!_ '' that the three of them untangle themselves to gain their feet.

  
''Merry Christmas, Harry!'' The doppelgangers and younger chirp in near-synchronization.

  
''Merry Christmas.'' He returns, the barest edge of what could very well be considered a smile upturning the corner of his lips.

  
The twins, locking onto Percy still unceremoniously laid out in bed, then proceed to divebomb their older sibling until he reluctantly, sputtering indignantly, rises. He grumbles a greeting of the holiday on his stomping way to the bathroom to freshen up.

  
''Are you ready for The Greatest Christmas, Harry?'' Ron questions enthusiastically. The twins sidle up to his sides, though make certain to not make him claustrophobic. The younger dips his shaggy head in a nod.

  
''Breakfast is first.'' Fred ticks off.

  
''Mum would have a fit if we don't.'' Ron inserts with a shutter. It'd be interrupted as overdramatized if Harry weren't aware of the woman's infamous Wrath.  
''Then presents.'' George concludes.

  
''Then whatever we want!'' They echo together.

  
True to their word, the five of them- once Percy had been forced from the bathroom so his brothers could dress for the day; Harry having already done such hours previous- trail down to the glamourous Great Hall to attend breakfast. They're of the very few, due both to the early hour and the holiday, to be seated at the single table throughout their meal. Harry manages to consume an apple, but is mostly content to listen to the Weasleys joke and jostle about throughout their meal.

  
It's only after their plates had vanished that they trek back through the halls. There had been a vote that night over where they would open their gifts, and it'd been eventually- after a lengthy debate- decided that they would do so in the Slytherin Common Room. They'd be the only ones on there, versus there still being a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs remaining if they did so in either House.

  
As a precaution, Fred and George sneak a distracting set of glitter bombs that will spit an ark of festive red and green about the Dungeons. If the twins are notified about one being triggered to go off, or possibly hear Professor Snape's incensed bellow, then they'll know to retreat up to the dormitory.

  
Percy, as the oldest of all gathered, takes it upon himself to meticulously read each presents' label and arrange them at each individuals' seat. Fred and George had scooted two plush reclining chairs together just off to the side of the fireplace. Ron, mirroring Percy, had sequestered his own loveseat. Harry had opted for a simple armchair.

  
''Youngest to oldest.'' Percy lectures the twins meaningfully, a single ginger brow raised imperiously. Ron makes a theatrical rendition of rolling his eyes behind his brother's notice. Harry finds himself endlessly amused at the antics of the gathered Weasleys.

  
There's a brief exchanged in which Harry learns that Ron is older than him by just a bit under four months, but he gathers the smallest package placed at his feet to carefully peel open, carefully not to rip the crisp paper.

  
''You're one of those.'' Ron groans. A sharp look is swift to shut him up, however.

  
Inside the square package are two marginally dusty books on Wizarding History before even the war, along with one on Wizarding politics.

  
''Thank you, Percy.'' Harry nods, distracted by the interesting cover of the history tome. Engraved into its front, along the spine, extending to the very back is an illustration of mighty witches and wizards in various forms of stance. The ginger returns the incline, pleased by the raven-haired boy's interest in his gifts.

  
''Your turn, Ronald.'' 

  
The youngest redhead eagerly plucks up a medium sized package already seated before his lap. His tears into the packaging savagely. Across from him, Harry contains a wince at the resulting disarray.

  
''What?'' Ron blinks down into the rectangular box. A moment later, he pulls out a large plushy spider by the very tip of a spindly leg. A scowl is cast in Fred and George's direction. ''Thanks.''

  
''Don't you love it, Ronykins!'' The doubles beams mischievously.

  
''Ron has arachnophobia.'' Percy informs Harry in a low voice. The noirette nods his understanding.

  
Their exchange continues. The twins receive several wizarding gags, thrills, what reminds Harry similarly of Muggle fireworks, homemade sweaters with the first letter of their names sewn into the front, and, most peculiar, their own plushies. Fred's is a hyena, while George's a coyote. They're immediately cuddled close throughout the duration of their tearing into gifts.

  
They practically cackle upon opening Harry's gift. He'd gotten them a joint gift of muggle joke books and gags, along with a wriggling box that he's swift to warm them to _**please**_ not jostle.

  
Inside, to their absolute delight, is a lump of fur. Two curious orbs gaze up at them innocently, curiously, a pink tongue lolling out of its mouth happily.

  
''A puppy!'' The doppelgangers actually squeal. George immediately scoops the ball of fluff and enthused greeting licks out of the container to snuggle close with his twin.

''Thank you, Harry!''

  
''Mum is gonna go off her rocker.'' Ron gapes. Percy immediately snaps at him for his rudeness over Harry's thoughtful, surely pricey, gift. ''I I-mean good on ya, Harry.''  
''I asked Mrs. Weasley for permission.'' The young Potter informs. Ron droops at the assurance; His mother is a force to be reckoned with when enraged. Percy, however, seems almost proud over the fact _oh, sweet Merlin someone with ACTUAL common sense, to request PERMISSION, amongst these hooligans, unheard of!_

  
Ron is given numerous sweets, several of which Harry recalls purchasing from the Hogwarts Express' trolley. Also a number of Quidditch-related items- including a poster of his favorite team, the Chudley Cannons, and helmet of sorts that he turns red as a fruit at. There's also his own red sweater with a yellow 'R' emblazoned on the front.  
''I hate maroon.'' Ron mutters. Despite his words, he's swift to tug it on just as the twins already had.

  
When he shreds open his gift from Harry, his eyes practically bulge out of his head at the arrangement of baked sweets and treats inside. Along with the books on Quidditch.  
''Merlin, did you make those yourself, Harry?'' George asks. Harry nods bashfully.

  
''I didn't know you bake, Harry.'' Fred muses. A shrug is his response. There's too much happening, Harry can't quite seem to manage much when it pertains to vocalization.

  
''Woah!'' Ron gasps upon lifting the cover of his Quidditch text. Inside, professional players zip through the air, across each page. Turning each number shows the next play.

  
''Does it show the latest game?'' Percy inquires in moderated intrigue.

  
''Yes.'' The Potter manages.

  
''I've read about them.'' The oldest of the room nods.

  
Percy is given a certifiable army of books, along with a few sweets. He seems enraptured by each cover and seemingly only just manages to not delve into their contents immediately.

  
Harry's gift to the Prefect includes a total of four books. ''From the Muggle world,'' he explains at the furrowed expression on the older boy's features. The first is a thick hardcover concerning history of the last few centuries. The second has to do with politics over the ages, laws, and concerning the branches of government as a whole. The third is a non-fiction book, while the fourth is of fictional mythology.

  
Harry takes his time in regarding each item he's gifted with with a level of awe. He'd anticipated that morning awaiting reactions to what he'd gotten his peers, but he hadn't imagined he'd be getting anything. He'd never received a gift before. It was overwhelming.

  
Fred and George had given him the Wizarding tricks that'd reminded him of Muggle fireworks. Along with a locket of a gleaming Golden Snitch that he stares in awe at.  
''It still flies.'' Fred informs him. ''It just isn't as fast as the real.''

  
''It can be spelled to flap its wings if it senses any danger.'' George continues. ''We took the liberty of charming it with a few, hope you don't mind.''

  
''But there's always room for more.'' They echo with mischievous grins. Harry has a hunch, as he carefully clasps the chain about his neck, that there's something he's missing buried within that statement.

  
Ron had given him a package of chocolate frogs, of which he'd yet to sample previously.

  
''They aren't real frogs.'' Percy, seeing his expression, is swift to assure.

  
''It's just a spell.'' Ron concurs.

  
There's also a warm, fuzzy scarf at the bottom of the box. It's a deep emerald and shimmering silver, with gleamingly golden trim. Ron turns a bit of an alarming shade of crimson at the sight of the cloth. Fred and George, much like a lioness seeking her prey, make certain to practically pounce on their youngest brother in the form of teases and jaunts.

  
''Mum taught me to sew when I was young.'' Ron admits, shifting in place in his cushy seat. ''It's something to do.'' _I quite enjoy it_ , he doesn't vividly state.

  
From Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, to his utter surprise, is a hefty container of mouth-watering fudge. Along with a worn, hand-written journal with a cracked spine that contains numerous Wizarding recipes of all sorts; Meats, grain, vegetables and fruits, breads, confections... There's also his own ''Weasley sweater'', as had been referred. It's of thick quality, headier than any the ginger brothers had each received.

  
''Mum heard you hadn't celebrated Christmas before.'' Fred informs him.

  
There's also a letter:

  
_Dear, Harry_

  
_Happy Christmas from Arthur, Ginny and myself, Dear! Make sure to eat plenty at the Christmas Feast, the House Elves have always splurged, I know. You need to buck up, dear boy, get some meat on your bones!_

  
_I sincerely hope you enjoy the fudge; Though, I've yet to receive a complaint over it._

  
_The sweater is much thicker due to you being so small! You'll catch a cold, all skin and bones, Dear!_

  
_(Oh, and Ginny insisted on sending something to you from herself personally._

  
_I only just managed to keep Arthur from owling himself to ask his burning questions of the Muggle World as his own gift.)_

  
_I wish to thank you for providing Fred and George with a sensible mind amongst their mischief. Also for accepting Ron, he can be a bit overzealous. And for getting Percy away from those books of his, without force!_

  
_Merry Christmas, Harry, Dear. You're welcome over at the Burrow, our home, anytime._

  
_~Weasley Family_

  
''Mom's practically adopted you, I reckon.'' George muses nonchalantly.

  
Harry relentlessly shoves the sudden influx of emotions threatening to suffocate him. He opts to focus, instead, on hoping that Arthur and Molly Weasley enjoy what he'd mailed them, along with elusive Ginny.

  
For Mrs. Weasley, he'd sent- via Hedwig- two Muggle cook books: One on substantial meal plans, the other on baked treats; There's also a gardening book. As well as a two-way mirror for her, her husband and daughter to share. At the reminder, he's swift to hand out the packages containing the mirror for Fred and George, the one for Ron, and final to Percy.

  
''So you have means of contact other than letters.'' He informs.

  
Mr. Weasley receives a book on Muggle inventions over the ages, history, and the modern Muggle world. The man is absolutely enthralled with non-magic folk, he knew.  
For Ginny, he uses what tales Ron had divulged pertaining to the girl's love, just like the rest of her family, for Quidditch. He'd purchased a bracelet with a Quaffel, Bludger, and Golden Snitch that would move about her wrists, and even form a light shield if the piece sensed her to be in any moral peril. Along with a handsome leather-bound journal for any wandering thoughts that possibly crossed her mind.

  
In return, the younger girl had sent a tin of homemade pumpkin pasties and triple-chocolate cookies.

  
''Ginny must really like you,'' Ron blinks in surprise, ''she hardly ever enjoys to bake. Even for family.'' Which, of course, instigates a round of light teasing from the twins over their sister having a crush on poor Harry. He's careful to tune their banter out, turning to the rest of his presents.

  
He'd given his Captain, Marcus Flint, his gift before the older had left Hogwarts' grounds for holiday. It was a simple, charming package of sweets he'd made himself, along with a book on Quidditch that held all the numerous famous players over the years. The fifth year wasn't the most keen when it came to reading, but the pre-teen hoped he'd get at least a miniscule amount of enjoyment out of it. When he'd given the older male his gift, however, he hadn't expected one to be returned to him with strict instructions to wait until the day of to open it. He'd made certain to obey.

  
Now, though, as Harry neatly unties the bow conjoining the gift paper to the box, he blinks. Inside is a deep silvery-gray album; Its contents depicting numerous scenes during Quidditch practices. During their first match against Ravenclaw. Him mounting his broom in preparation for exhilarating flight. Him catching the Golden Snitch... A vast amount of moving pictures of him, his team, and even a couple with him and the twins, whom are donned in their Ravenclaw colors of blue and bronze. There's even one of a smirking Draco Malfoy, dressed collar to ankles in Slytherin pride, chatting with him after practice one day- as his broom and wind-swept appearance depict.

  
There's also a package with his named scrawled atop in a somehow familiar script. There's no identifying marks as to the sender, merely a note. It reads, _you know who I am, but you don't. Myself and your mother were good friends._ It's cryptic nature has the gears idly turning within Harry's mind for the remainder of the day. It's contents, however, make him freeze.

  
''What is it?'' He can only dimly hear Ron.

  
 _Headgirl_ a gleaming maroon and golden badge glimmers up at him. _Prefect_ another, baring match colors, reads.

  
 _Headboy_ , the final badge, also of red and gold Gryffindor pigment, shimmers up at him. There are also a number of Quidditch-related items. Each date encrypted holds a date marked before he was born. Along with a name:

  
_**James Potter.** _

  
''What is it, Harry?'' Comes a distinctly worried voice. He doesn't have enough presence of mind to depict whether it's Fred or George. ''Harry?''

  
''Nothing.'' The Potter evades, carefully settling the box on the opposite side of his chair. They continue with their opening. 

  
There's another, hastily wrapped, gift without a mark of the sender, merely his own name. There's not even a letter attached. Inside causes his already anxiously-flustered innards to nearly seize. There are what are, undoubtedly, two sets of Hogwarts robes neatly folded at the bottom. Along with two wands, a set of glasses similar to his own disheveled ones, and a plush box that fits atop his palm. Shaky digits reveal it to contain two gleaming golden bands.

A gift paper-wrapped book is also unearthed. Within its enclosure is a thick, ancient-looking tome depicting the Potter Family Tree, intriguingly enough. It's swiftly set aside before Harry has chance to be lured into paging through its entirety.

  
To Harry's utter astounding, there's a prim package marked with the name _Narcissa Malfoy_ , Draco's mother. Mrs. Malfoy had sent _him_ something? He and Draco are what could be considered acquaintances, possibly even friends if he believed such notion. And he'd technically met her at King's Cross Station... But did that warrant a- a gift from the proper woman?

  
Harry had, in fact, sent the woman a parcel, but had never imagined anything being returned. He merely wished to splurge as much as possible this year since he had the means to do so. And the woman _had_ helped him maneuver onto the platform. Along with not banish him from interacting with her son like he'd partly figured...

  
He hadn't known what to gift a woman that could have practically anything at the disposal of her fingertips. He also didn't want to ask Draco for advise, despite informing the other boy he'd be sending her something in the form of requesting shy permission. After a lengthy debate, he'd eventually decide to grant her something money could, yet really couldn't, buy.

  
He'd never known the love of a mother, nor anyone exactly, but from the way Draco talked about his mum, it was easy to see their bond- even through the esteemed Malfoy Mask that was paraded amongst the public. He'd considered purchasing two-way mirrors like the ones he'd given the Weasleys, but she could very well already own or procure her own. Besides, it didn't seem nearly personal enough. In the end, he'd- the week before holiday break- gently wrapped drawings of the blond and sent them with Hedwig before he could change his mind.

  
There were numerous depictions of various scenes- most of which having already been perfected before the idea to send them off. There were sketches of the Malfoy Heir in class, in the Great Hall, waltzing about the labyrinth of hallways, in the Slytherin Common Room, even the library. Some rough doodles, others more detailed, while others were full depictions with shading and definition. All were crafted in pencil or simple pen and ink, as he hadn't much thought to purchase anything of pigment during his visit to Diagon Alley.

  
It was, admittedly, a simple endeavor,- especially for someone whom could have whatever she wanted at her fingertips- but he figured it was a way for her to be close to her child at her own leisure. She could see him at their home, but now with him attending Hogwarts, there were months that she couldn't see, nor hold, her boy. It was a theory that he hoped above all that she wouldn't detest or scoff at.

  
There's a thick tome inside pertaining to astronomy, along with another of numerous types of flowers. There's also a letter resting neatly atop each book that he's swift to pluck up.

  
_Dear, Harry Potter_

  
_I have since received your gift by the time this package will reach you. Make no mistake in that I had already had intension on sending you gift beforehand. I thank you kindly for the hospitality, however. Another letter shall be sent to you once your thoughtful gift has been received and opened._

  
_I wish to thank you, as well, for your thoughtful gifts to my Draco. He is certain to love them. It is also my hope that you enjoy what he, and myself, have given you._   
_Pertaining to the books, Draco has informed me you quite fancy the stars, along with plants. Although, I admit to having alternative reasoning for both. It is a lengthy tale pertaining to both of our families that I will not presently delve into._

  
_Along with these physical intentions, however, I wish to extend upon you, Harry James Potter, an invitation into our home. Over the Summer, perhaps, if your guardians so approve?_

  
_Also, and this is the final, I wish to provide you with a means. It is an ancient practice mostly reserved for ancient Wizarding Houses, though I feel as though you are deserving as much. After all, it is in your lineage as well._

  
_Admittedly, it is also not without ulterior motive. My husband, Lucius Malfoy, and Draco's father, is not so... enamored, let us say, with such extension. I am afraid he will extinguish them if they are not properly freed. As such, I, Narcissa Malfoy (née Black), endow his use to you. I entrust you will do so wisely._

  
_Thank you once again for your thoughtfulness. I await your response pertaining to your visit to Malfoy Manor._

  
_Sincerely, Narcissa Malfoy_

  
''Draco Malfoy's mother sent you a gift?!'' Ron's practically-shriek startles Harry out of his shocked reverie.

  
''It would seem so.'' Harry clears his throat lightly, tucking the letter tucked safely inside of its envelope inside the top thick book pertaining to astronomy.

  
They move on from there, though it's abundantly clear that the ginger so desires to speak more of the matter. The raven has a distinct impression that it's not exactly pleasant conversation.

  
From Draco, he removes a set of silky robes that look like they cost more than... well, he doesn't want to know. There's also a hefty book on defensive spellwork. The other wrapped gift, however, yields a box made of similar-looking material as his trunk. There's also a note made out in the blond's surprisingly, yet somehow not, gorgeous cursive.

  
_Privacy is a lesson in wit. Learn it well._

  
_Also, try not to get yourself into trouble, nor killed, whilst I'm away, won't you?_

  
The barest of smiles tips the corner of Harry's chapped lips. Only Draco. Still, though, he's immensely grateful for the other boy's extension to properly learn to protect himself and his possessions after... Well, after he was unable to do so personally.

  
It makes the Potter anxiously-hope that his fellow Slytherin enjoys what he'd given him. He'd had it, due to its fragility, sent to his home in lieu of sending it along with him on the Hogwarts Express. A specific part of its contents wouldn't particularly enjoy the voyage, he figured.

  
 _No_ , a kitten wouldn't particularly appreciate such a ride, at all.

  
He'd asked permission from Mrs. Malfoy, of course, before purchasing said feline. At her consent, he'd immediately decided on a tiny orange cat. A male, only just a breadth above two months old. It was fitting for the devious boy, he thought. Harry hoped that Draco would enjoy the new companion, in any case.

  
In another separate package, the noirette had also enclosed an album containing both the moving images used in the Wizarding World, and drawings he'd made personally. Draco, much like his mother, was difficult to gift due to his ability to procure practically anything he desired. The album was charcoal gray, to match his fellow pre-teen's window-gaze, and held pictures of himself, his mother, his many companions in Slytherin, along with other assorted instances for Draco that particularly stood out to Harry. There was, of course, also plenty of room for more to be added with time. Perhaps even enough for the remainder of their six other years at Hogwarts, if stretched.

  
Draco's gift was the last one Harry opened. The day previous, Christmas Eve, he'd spent with Hagrid, Padfoot and Fang. The former had given him a hand-crafted flute that, when the raven tested it beneath instruction, much resembled the hooting of an owl. Also, several vials of colorful pigment, along with whittled sticks with tuffs at the crown- paint brushes.

  
'''Eard ya like ta draw.'' Hagrid explained. ''Thought maybeh ya'd wanna give somethin' else a try.''

  
As well, there's a leather-bound book. On each individual page of parchment is the name of a creature/animal in the Wizarding world, along with hand-written information on each. There's a blank space to the right of each turned page.

  
''Ah'm not much o' an artist.'' Hagrid shrugged. "Figure ya could if ya wanted. Here,'' he hands over a weighty tome, ''from tha library. Should be pictures of each in there if ya wanna draw 'em. Make sure I see if ya do.'' He winked.

  
In exchange, Harry had given the half-giant a package containing rare tea that he'd heard the man vaguely mention that he quite fancied. There's also, coincidentally, a drawing and wood-crafted depiction of Fang, along with several other drawings of Hogwarts, the man's wooden home, and Black Lake. It made Harry itch to try out the paints on each bit of scenery and organic.

  
For Padfoot and Fang, he'd procured an assortment of ropes and other toys he hoped the wolf-like canine and boarhound would take some enjoyment out of. Along with some animal-friendly treats he'd made himself. 

  
Harry regards the onslaught of considerate and tasty items placed about him, Fred, George and Ron's voices interlaced around him. There's a discomforting warmth in the pit of his stomach. Idly, he wonders wherever he was going to store everything.

\--...--

  
The rest of the morning is spent with many jokes, stories from the Weasleys of Christmases past, and gorging on the sweets given to them. Molly Weasley's fudge, Harry learned, was in fact absolutely _divine._

  
Lunch is just as grand as breakfast. The mingling scents each delectable, but Harry's stomach is in quite a tizzy by the time they retreat back to the Slytherin Common Room; Despite the fact Harry hadn't managed to eat an ounce, even at his companions' prodding.

  
The remainder of the day is, for the most part, spent lazing about. There were numerous games of Exploding Snap, Gobstones, and even more rounds of Wizards Chess played. Ron, the by-far most talented at the latter, would gleefully challenge any and all, willing or not. The twins were remarkably skilled, though scattered, as well, just not to the extent as their youngest brother. Percy, for all his smarts, wasn't particularly grand at it. Between the countless rounds he'd partook in, Harry proved to be nearly as capable as Fred and George, maybe even a miniscule amount above.

  
The day was so... surreal. Any moment now, Harry expected to wake up with his features planted into his personal study work, again. Instead, he's surrounded by a warmth not merely provided by the crackling fireplace.

  
The dinner feast was, just as Mrs. Weasley mentioned, a grand affair. The house elves had, indeed, went all out for the occasion. Despite their lacking numbers, Harry couldn't recall ever being bare witness to so much sustenance before.

  
Due to the lacking amount of bodies, all the tables but one shortened one had been cleared. And, of course, the Head Table proudly positioned on a pedestal in the very front of the vast room. Professor Dumbledore, decked out in a cheery, gaudy pointed red and green hat, in particular can be heard chattering joyfully amongst the teachers gathered around him. All of whom, minus Professor Quirrell and Professor Snape, seem to be especially animated or in chipper spirits.

  
In his desire to be as gifting as he desired, Harry had even given most of his lecturers a present. Wielding the cover of eve that night, he'd cautiously snuck his gifts onto- or beside- the desk in each of the Professors' classrooms; Careful to leave only their name and not whom it was from. In his paranoia, he'd even altered his clumsy- through lack of use throughout the years- manuscript to be vastly different from his own.

  
For Professor McGonagall, due to her love of the sport, he'd dug around and managed to procure tickets to a professional Quidditch match set to take place over the Summer. Also, partly in jest, a package containing nutritional, organic, treats- suitable for both animal and human consumption; Due to the Head of Gryffindor's being a feline animagi.  
The woman, though stern and a bit intimidating, was also fair and one of the best teachers Harry had ever had the pleasure of having- if he's not biased. She'd also assisted him, an unheard of notion, and Padfoot when Hagrid had arrived at the castle with him before even the official start of the school year.

  
Professor Dumbledore was surprisingly easy to decide. He'd spent nearly an entire week pouring over enchanted sewing books and tips in order to craft the man four pairs of socks. One bore the red and gold coloring of Gryffindor, the second blue and bronze in honor of Ravenclaw, black and yellow for Hufflepuff, and the green and silver of Slytherin. The elderly man was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, after all. It was only fair to depict each House beneath his rein.

  
After their interaction regarding the Mirror of Erised, Harry had kept the man's depiction in mind. The beard-clad gent so-desired a fair of wool socks, Harry would deliver.  
Harry had even, though a bit hesitantly, gotten Professor Snape something- even though the Potions Master absolutely loathed his entire being. It was a bit generic, admittedly, but he hadn't known what else to give his bat-like Head of House. After all, he knew the man would use the gleaming cauldron- his own was looking a bit ragged from overuse. Along with an ancient Potions book that Draco Malfoy, the man's godson and therefore knowing the man better than most, had been helpful in suggesting.

  
For Professor Sprout, he'd opted for a Muggle plant book that he hoped she'd be at least intrigued by. Along with, for no apparent reason other than it seemed oddly fitting, a Venus McFly Trap. Neither were anywhere near as interesting as the planet life she tended to daily, but he'd wanted to offer something a bit out-of-the-box.

  
Professor Flitwick, however, was a whole other conundrum. The pre-teen had considered some interesting texts on the Professor's chosen subject, Charms, but eventually decided on something a bit more hands-on. The man's goblin-like stature proved a bit difficult in certain instances about his classroom and all-together daily life. As such, Harry had enlisted the willing-aid of Hagrid to craft a wooden stool that, with spellwork aided by a surprisingly eager Professor McGonagall, would convert into a chair with regards to his height. Harry so hoped that it wasn't taken in offense, despite Hagrid's vivid promise of the contrary.

  
Madam Hooch had, yet hadn't, been difficult. In the end, after a bit of hesitance, he'd decided on a new personal broom for her teachings. It wasn't the newest model, a Nimbus 2000, like Harry's own, but still had raving reviews. He'd decided simply that the sharp woman wouldn't take especially kind to the latest model, as it would be a direct usurp over her students.

  
Madam Pomfrey, despite his avoiding the woman's Hospital domain, was granted two Muggle, as fitting his involuntary theme, medical texts; Along with a duo of psychology books.

  
The Wizarding World, he'd discovered, was sorely lacking in the knowledge department when it pertained to Muggles. Not that he particularly held strong feelings of them due to his life-long experiences, but it was an altered perspective. Teachers, after all, held knowledge in regards to a form of power.

  
(They aren't wrong.)

  
For Professor Sinestra, his Astronomy lecturer, he'd gotten a book pertaining to the Muggle perspective of the planets and stars in the night sky.

  
Professor Binns had been his biggest struggle. In the end, though he wasn't particularly impressed with his own idea, he'd given the monotonous man a ghostly invitation to some sort of historical function or another.

  
Madam Pince, as the librarian, regarded words and books as power. As such, Harry had gifted her with an assortment of Muggle fiction and nonfiction books. 

  
Throughout the meal, as though expecting his Professors to be able to read his mind over his covert gift-giving, Harry is ever-careful to not meet any of his teachers' gazes. Instead, he opts to focus on nibbling a few, though surely damning, bites of the delectable grub. He listens to the chatter surrounding him, both from the assorted Weasley brothers, and the bits of conversation he keeps only a vague ear on. He also indulges, at the utter vehemence of Fred, George and Ron, in a few Wizard Crackers. He walks away with several trinkets afterwards, adding to his steadily-building list of personal belongings.

  
It's overwhelming.

  
That night, as he's sifting more in-depth through all the items he'd been given, his breath hitches with great effort, and his mind is flooded in a sensory overload.

  
Overall, though, it had been the best day of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fucking beast to edit, lemme just say.
> 
> (Be easy please. I'm fragile.)
> 
> I tried to make every gift have some form of meaning- no matter how small. And, yes, Harry has an affinity for animals being gifts, don't sue.
> 
> (Fun fact: I'm considering- CONSIDERING- making a third story 🤔. )


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, travelers!
> 
> Here's you another chapter. Hope it doesn't disappoint terribly.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, commenting, liking, etcetera! It means the world!
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy! :)

_**Chapter 24** _

  
Time seems to exist in both speedy, yet sluggish, motion all at once after December. Which leads way through January all-too soon.  
There was a steady ball of dread that was festering within Harry the closer it approached to June: When he would be forced away from Hogwarts,- the one place that'd ever felt like a home, and not a house- back to the hostility of the Dursleys for the foreseeable three months. If he survived that long beneath their roof, that is.

  
Exams were mere months away and the likes of Ravenclaw Hermione Granger were already cramming as much information as possible. Though, admittedly, Harry was as well. He often caught sight of her in the library, surrounded by towering stacks of books. Occasionally, her and Ron could be found seated together as well, arguing atypically.

  
Slytherin's second Quidditch match, against Hufflepuff, was on the fourth weekend of February- just over a week away. Flint had updated their practices to every day instead of a few times a week. He was bound and determined for them to win, to increase their chances of winning the House Cup; Which lead to an intense few hours of barked orders a day, relentless laps and plays about the course... It was exhausting.

  
Harry had actually been managing a couple hours of sleep most nights of late, due to his rigorous schedule. Unfortunately, though, it was even less fitful than getting none at all. Night terrors plagued his waking and unawake hours: The dreams pertaining to the Dursley's he'd already been having for years. Professor Dumbledore proclaiming his expulsion before the entirety of the school. Professor Snape's sneering features and sharp tongue, plotting his life-long detention of remaining with his relatives for eternity. And also, most peculiar of all, were the ones pertaining to ever-anxious Professor Quirrell. Typically, Harry found himself entrapped within the man's odd, dusty turban, though it would... speak to him. Whisper words and nonsense and _a green-hot light and a reverberating scream that chills his tossing, turning, thrashing form to the core._

  
He'd also taken to avoiding everyone to the best of his abilities.

  
Fred and George, in the miniscule amount of instances he'd caught sight of them, seemed worried over his allusiveness. Being Ravenclaws, however, they couldn't exactly confront him in the Dungeons. Whenever Harry isn't hidden away in the Slytherin Common Room beneath the cover of his Father's Invisibility Cloak- after all his Housemates had went off to bed- he's can be found in the abandoned classroom where he keeps his trunk stored. Or in the deep depths of the labyrinthine library. He'd taken to completely avoiding the Great Hall.

  
Due to his allusiveness, Draco and his other dormmates- not that they would; except possibly Flint, **_possibly_** \- hadn't managed to yet confront him either. It's a mere amount of time, however, Harry has a hunch.

  
He's even boycotting his Professors, as well as possible. He couldn't quite manage Professor Snape and his brand of utter distaste, opting to sequestering himself into not existing in Potions class as much as possible. Professor McGonagall seemed as though she'd been wanting to confront him, but her professionalism held her back. It didn't help that Harry had taken to making certain he was the first one out the door at the conclusion of each of his lessons.

  
His adversity to touch and close-corners had merely worsened, if at all possible. Once, at the end of practice, Captain Marcus Flint had moved to clap him on the shoulder in a form of amiability, and Harry had flinched bodily away from the contact. He'd only just evaded the old boy's confrontation after.

  
The only person the Potter could at all handle being around was Hagrid.

  
The half-giant had apparently picked up enough cues about him that he knew not to prod him especially. During Harry's ritual Saturday visits, they'd either settle around outside, or pad about the grounds, atypically with Padfoot and Fang attached to the pre-teen's side or lap.

  
Unfortunately, during his floundering weeks after the holidays, Harry hadn't yet managed to uncover much more pertaining to the Gringotts break-in on the day of his birthday, the Cerberus on the forbidden Third Floor, and everything involved. Though, his instincts are constantly hackled in a forbidden bid; A warning.

  
\--...--

  
Flint is barking mad, Harry has decided.

  
He was both smugly-confident that they would be able to ''crush'' the Hufflepuff team. And, yet, he was also spazzing over their _need_ to win, to increase their chances for the House Cup at the end of the school year.

  
Which, of course, made him into an even more formidable tyrant of determination. He'd even taken to holding practice over the weekend. Which, to Harry's disappointed-chagrin, cut into his visits with Hagrid. The dark-haired youngster only hoped that they would return to sole weekdays after the match.

  
\--...--

  
Hufflepuff has a formidable Seeker, Cedric Diggory, Harry learns. 

  
He proves to be one of the greatest challengers Harry had had to face yet during Quidditch. He was noticeably capable on a broom, handling it- despite it being a model younger than Harry's own- with a definite confidence. However, it wasn't of the smug sort, no. The young Potter had never been on the receiving end of so many disarming smiles, exuding an involuntary charm. So many sportsmanly bids of good fortune.

  
It made him uncomfortable.

  
Though, fortunately, his being able to flit about the air on his marvelous Nimbus 2000 was sufficient distraction.

  
There was just something so... _freeing_ to flying. The raven being able to do as he wishes. The wind coursing through his constantly disheveled, shaggy locks...

  
It was exhilarating.

  
Due to his misfortune on a broom during the last match, Captain Flint had made certain to lecture Harry on proper broom etiquette and such of the sort. Which, admittedly, was a bit of a blow to the noirette's ~~nonexistent~~ confidence. Nevertheless, he did as he always would: Scope from high above in the skies for the tell-tale gleam of the Golden Snitch. While also keeping distant tabs on the rest of his team, their opposing competitors, and any rogue bludgers.

  
The latter proves to be a fortunate calculation on his part.

  
One moment, Harry is sifting through the air, keeping watch for the Snitch. The next, there's a tell-tale _whoosh_ of a formidable weight just off to the side of his ear. He only just manages to duck as the bludger whips around in another attack. He's forced into a retreat.  
Harry ducks, dives, swerves, and all together maneuvers wild-fluidly through the air in order to not be bashed to pieces by the attacking ball. He can only distantly hear, once his plight is noticed, Marcus Flint shouting at him over his actions. After that, it seems as though everyone is then tipped off as to his current predicament. He can hear Lee Jordan's commentary in the background, though isn't able to discern anything intelligible.

  
Harry's mind is working overtime for any course of action as he weaves through any and all of his fellow players, desperately attempting to lead the bludger away from any innocent passerby. Beaters from Slytherin and Hufflepuff both are attempting to thwack the ball away from its direct decent after him, to no avail. It seems to have, uncharacteristically, taken him on as sole target. It's with that information that Harry pulls up sharply, guiding his broom into the overheard fluffy clouds.

  
If no one can falter the ball in its advancement on him, best to guide the provoked orb away from anyone in the line of fire whom could get hurt.

  
Better him than others.

  
Unfortunately, the action proves to be a fatal one. The sharp upwards incline drags on his speed exponentially, even with the wicked-fast Nimbus. Combined with the bludger's steely determination...

  
The first strike impacts with his shoulder. He feels a definite shift within it. His grip remains white-knuckled over the handle of his broomstick. The second double-around compacts with his left side. The third his abdomen. The fourth his dangling right leg. Fifth... Sixth... Seventh...

  
He's free-falling.

  
It's a bit peaceful, honestly. There's a definite, steady pound-pounding within Harry's entire body, but its dampened by the rush of weightlessness engulfing him from all directions. And then oh-so-sweet dark blankness.

  
\--...--

  
When he awakes, his senses are keyed up to a painful volume.

  
He's oh-so aware of the sharp stench of sterility in the air. Of the plush softness beneath and around him. Of the weight against his heaving chest...

  
There's a distinct _thud_ as his slight form splatters to the ground in an unceremonious sprawl of limbs. He's desperately clawing at the constraint locked about his torso and waist, locking him in place. **_Freak!_**... _Sharp biting fists... The crack of impact... No! Please, no, Uncle Vernon.._

  
''-otter! Mr. Potter! It's alright. You are safe!'' _No no no. Safe? never safe. What is 'safe'?..._

  
''Mr. Potter! Seize or I'll have no choice but to sedate you!'' _No no no nonononono please..._

  
Darkness.

  
\--...--

  
''Potter?''

  
He knows that voice.

  
Crisp. Dry. No-nonsense. Cool. Professor... Professor.. _Professor Snape_. The, his, Head of House of Slytherin. His Potions lecturer. Barer of sharp, near-ebony gaze. Dramatic, sweeping robes gloomy as the midst of night. A curling sneer of loathing towards his very being.  
''Professor?'' Harry croaks. He's still laying atop a cushioning warmth. There's a vivid maroon blanket drape over his lower half, pulled up to the edge of his chest. He struggles to settle upright. Though, it's as if the cloth laid overtop of him weighs him down tremendously. At the seat next to his bed, the bat-like man's lips furrow sharply, forebodingly.

  
''Foolish boy.'' The lengthy-haired teacher barks, voice echoing, reverberating, hauntingly. Harry's futile struggles intensify.

  
The First Year watches, horrified, as the man's deep, dark gaze morphs before his very eyes. Brown-black lightens, darkens... And then flickers a malevolent crimson.

  
_Green-hot light and a reverberating scream._

  
_''No! Not Harry!...''_

  
**_''Foolish Boy.''_ **

  
He's yet again succumbed by darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun, cliffhanger.
> 
> (Fun fact: I'm considering writing a third story.
> 
> Ya'll here like damn finish this one first 😂🤣.)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, ya'll, here's you a chapter!
> 
> Thank you all soooo much for the support!!!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! :)

_**Chapter 25** _

  
When Harry awakes, with a jolt, yet again, he's unmistakably in the Hospital Wing.

  
This time, there's no creepy red-eyed Potions Master at his bed-side. In fact, there's nothing but sweets and treats and hand-made cards stacked half-hazardously in the seat.

  
''There we are, Mr. Potter.'' He only just contains a flinch at Madam Pomfrey's abrupt voice. A moment later, the matron appears at his bed side.

  
''You've been out for quite some time, Mr. Potter. You've had your friends and teachers in quite a tizzy.'' She informs, regarding him critically. As such, she's swift to tack on, ''three days. You've been out for three days.'' At his unasked question.

  
Harry nods his thanks at the information. There's only a dull echo of pain in his body, though it's tampered by the influx of thoughts and senses and I've-had-worse fluctuating within him.

  
''That bludger packed a real wallop.'' Madam Pomfrey murmurs, fussing over his covering. Harry resists the desperate urge to chuck it across the room. ''A shattered shoulder, nearly all your ribs broken, a broken leg...'' She tsks. The next thirty minutes, after receiving his reluctant permission, are then spent with her waving her wand over the areas where his injuries lay. The First Year is immensely uncomfortable with her proximity- his own vulnerability- and the prodding, but he cooperates; If only so as to increase the chances of his early release.

  
''You're friends have been relentless in trying to sneak in to visit you, Mr. Potter.'' Madam Pomfrey informs him at one point. Harry nods, disbelieving her words. Who would care about _Him_?

  
''You may be released tomorrow night, providing you abide bed-rest and stay in that bed. It seems as though that sleep you got vastly managed to heal you.'' There's something in her words at the statement, one that Harry doesn't have the brain-power to decipher. Instead, he nods in acceptance, watching as the woman disappears back into her office.

  
Harry is sufficiently distracted by his plaguing thoughts and the school work he'd missed that had thankfully been delivered. He's released just in time to attend the dinner feast the following evening. Of course, he doesn't attend, opting instead to retreat to the relative sanctity of the Dungeons.

  
\--...--

  
It's after his stay in the Hospital Wing that Harry overhears that Cedric, his Seeker competition, had managed to catch the Snitch in the chaos of the noirette's being chased during the match.

  
The older boy hadn't even realized Harry's plight at the time, and apparently was guilt-ridden over it. He'd attempted to sway Madam Hooch to allow a rematch, but it was set in stone; His team had won fair and square.

  
Harry, frankly, felt like shite over the entirety of the ordeal. He'd caused his team to lose. He'd failed. He was, just as his relatives had ingrained into him, Useless. A failure. Which is what leads him to making a choice for the betterment of his House.

  
Which, in turn, leads to his _reluctant_ approaching his Captain.

  
'' _What_?!'' Flint splutters. They're both located just off to the side of the Quidditch pitch. The older boy is already decked out in his uniform for a bit of personal, extra practice. ''You want to quit the team?! Are you mental?''

  
''It would be in the team's best interests.'' Harry explains patiently, mechanically. Despite his rigid stature, exhaustion plagues the entirety of his insides.

  
''I think you need to return to the Hospital Wing, Potter.'' Marcus regards him as if he'd abruptly transitioned into a Cerberus. ''You must have a head injury.''

  
''I'm a liability, Captain.'' The First Year insists.

  
''One rogue bludger, Potter, isn't enough to just up and throw yourself off the team. Hell, there wouldn't be Quidditch is that was the case.''

  
''I'm apparently incapable of controlling a broom, as shown in the first match with Ravenclaw. And now I'm a danger to ours and the other teams.'' Harry shakes his head, attempting to drive his point home to the older male.

  
''P-Harry,'' Flint intones levelly. There's a specific glint in his gaze. ''You aren't getting thrown off the team. I'll just keep an eye on you during matches if that'll make you feel better.''

  
It, in fact, makes him feel worse. The raven nods in defeated acceptance, however.

  
What else is he to do, after all.

  
\--...--

  
''Harry!''

  
The raven-haired boy doesn't so much as twitch at the low beckon. He's seated at an overshadowed sector of the Reference Section in the midst of the labyrinth-like library. Without even glancing up from the book he's currently enthralled in, he's able to track as one Ronald Weasley stalks through the shelvings of books. The ginger doesn't even notice him as he continues along.

  
It would seem as though another 'Let's Find Harry' hunt had been instigated. It was typically Fred and George whom would form it. Though, it seemed as though they'd managed to convince their youngest brother into assisting.

  
''Harry!'' Ron calls again, this time a bit louder. At this rate, the Hufflepuff was going to be booted from the library.

  
''Any sign of him?'' Fred or George, he's not quite able to discern which, inquires.

  
''No,'' Ron puffs a breath of heated air, ''not yet. Why the bloody hell are you wanting him for anyways?'' He questions irritably.

  
''Don't be jealous, Ronnikins.'' Gred or Forge tease lightly.

  
''And why would I?'' The younger Weasley states testily. ''He isn't anything all that special. He can't even manage to talk to anybody, why even bother?''

  
A pang jolts through Harry painfully at his fellow First Year's words. _Betrayal_.

  
He's fleeing the library beneath the veil of his Father's Invisibility Cloak before he has chance to hear the twins' response. He takes an ounce of pleasure out of hearing Madam Pince appearing to usher the disruptive redheads out of her library. It's a bit bittersweet.

  
\--...--

  
''Mr. Potter. If I could have a word with you after class.'' Professor Snape addresses. It's not a suggestion, merely an order.

  
Dread fills Harry throughout the duration of his Potions lesson. It's not sufficient enough to distract him from his potion,- though that was most likely the man's aim- though Draco has to redirect his ingredients on a few occasions. Harry, if he survives his encounter with the Potions Master, vows to gift his fellow First Year with all his favorite home-baked treats.

  
''No need to rise, Mr. Potter.'' His Head of House states vividly once the class is dismissed. It's obvious he wishes to thwart him via embarrassment around his peers. Though, not as vividly as he would anyone not in his House. Slytherin's have an impression to uphold, after all.

  
''I don't recall requesting your presence, however, Mr. Malfoy.'' Their lecturer regards the blond, still nonchalantly seated beside the spectacled Potter, with a criticizing glower.

  
''I was hoping to ask you a question pertaining to the lesson, sir.'' Draco inserts smoothly. He's the only student Harry had yet to meet, especially being a First Year, that was able to hold the bat-like man's gaze evenly. Godfather or no.

  
''Well, I don't suppose it is all that urgent then, is it, Mr. Malfoy? I suggest you wait in the hall, I'll be with you shortly.'' There's a veil of warning in their teacher's voice should he be disobeyed. It's still with an immense bout of reluctance that Draco moves to obey; However, painfully drawn out as he makes it to exit the classroom entirely. There's a bit startling of a look between frustration and, dare he say it... _fondnes_ s in Professor Snape's expression, however.

  
''Mr. Potter.'' And then that heavy gaze is focused entirely on him. The man moves out from behind his desk with a fluttering of his robes. He opts to stand, not quite towering over him in the gap between the lengthy table he's seated at and the one in front of him.

  
''Mr. Marcus Flint has brought it to my attention that you requested to be casted from your role as Seeker for My Quidditch team.'' There's a silent demand for him to offer his plead in the matter.

  
''I'm a burden to the team, Professor, sir.'' Harry explains levelly.

  
''And how might that be?'' A dark brow raises in demand for further elaboration. There's no reassurance towards his words of the contrary, however.

  
''I'm apparently incapable,'' a flicker of what may very well be shock flits across the older's features, ''of handling a broom. Also an endangerment to my own and opposing teammates, sir. I thought it to better healthier to all involved if I merely stepped down.'' There's a few moments of hefty silence in the wake of his explanation.

  
''Get out.''

  
''Out of my sight, Potter!'' Professor Snape bites when Harry, caught off guard, doesn't make to his feet swiftly enough. The shaggy raven-headed pre-teen is swift to gather himself and obey.

  
''Mr. Potter.'' He stalls just between the doorway leading out of the classroom and the outside hallway. ''You are to remain as Slytherin's Seeker. Heed my prior warning. Dismissed.''

  
''Yes, Professor Snape, sir.'' With that, Harry slips silently out into the corridor. He's heedless to the man's inner turmoil at his retreating presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm running on three and a half hours of sleep, and my eyes are strained to high Hades. Here's your chapter, though.
> 
> (Fun fact: I'm writing up the outline for a third story.)


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there.
> 
> Here's ya'll a chapter. Depending on your all's time zone, it's pretty late... It's a few minutes 'til 3:40 where I'm at.
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoy!

Chapter 26

Hagrid was surprisingly loose-lipped when drunk, Harry discovered. 

  
It was learned during one of his weekly visits to the man. It was a mere couple hours before curfew- due to his wishing to share the drawings he'd made in the animal/creature book the man had made for him for Christmas. It was a bit late, in the midst of the dinner feast, due to him having forgotten it that Saturday on his way to the gameskeeper's hut for their religious hang-outs.

  
The half-giant had apparently been out drinking and gambling at the Three Broomsticks, as it turns out. Without even prompting, the bearded behemoth of a gent had been slurring and raving.

  
''Ah won it! Off a stranger met down at the pub.'' Hagrid beams at the roaring fire he's poking unsteadily at. Inside, a cauldron is dangling, containing an... orb.

  
''Hagrid...'' Harry hesitates. ''Where did you get a dragon's egg?''

  
''Won it, Ah did!'' Hagrid reiterates giddily.

  
''Yes, but... people don't exactly carry dragon's eggs in their pockets typically, Hagrid.''

  
''Well, Ah told them, after Fluffy, Norbert woul' be well tak'n care afta.''

  
''Is Fluffy a dog?'' Harry prods.

  
''He's more 'n a dog thare, Harry! But,'' Hagrid pauses, before returning to prodding at a few loose ashes in the hearth. ''Ah'm not r'lly s'pposed ta tell ya about 'im.''

  
''Is he a good dog?'' Harry asks innocently. A pang of guilt threatens to overwhelm him. The man, the one who'd taken him away from the Dursley residence; even if for a short extent- and, quite possibly, death- was intoxicated and he was using him as a source of information.

  
''Goo' goo' dog, Fluffy is!'' Hagrid bobs his head frantically in confirmation. The swift motion causes him to stagger on his feet a bit. Luckily, he's able to plop gracelessly into a chair. ''Good guard, 'e is.''

  
''And is he, Fluffy, guarding anything?''

  
''Nuh uh.'' Puffy locks jostle about, head and beard both, as the older shakes his head vigorously. Maybe a bit too much in his current condition. ''Tha's between me, Nicholas Flamel, an' Professor Dumbledore.''

  
That was more than enough, though.

  
Any and all information pertaining to Cerberus'- though Harry had already absorbed practically everything he could find- and the name Nicholas Flamel was then intensely searched.

  
Unfortunately, he'd yet to find anything on the man.

  
He kept looking, though. Even sifting through the Forbidden Section after hours.

  
In order to help Hagrid, though, he also gains permission from Madam Pince to check-out books on dragons. Each night after practice, the Potter had taken to sneaking beneath the cover of night and his Cloak down to the half-giant's hut. He'd been doing his best to get Hagrid to release the dragon- as it was illegal, he'd found.

  
'''E's jus' a baby, 'e won' last withou' me ou' there!'' The man insists.

  
''But, Hagrid,'' Harry responds patiently, ''your house is wooden. Fang is terrified of him and won't even sleep inside anymore, and the d- Norbert, hasn't even hatched yet.'' Hagrid slumps a bit, chastised by the younger's logic.

  
''What if I find someone who can take care of Norbert?'' Harry offers in a moment of epiphany.

  
And that's how Harry Potter finds himself writing to Mrs. Weasley, asking if she could forward a letter to her son Charlie, whom works with wild dragons in Romania, for him.

  
It's also, unfortunately, how Harry manages to land himself into detention.

  
It was only a matter of time, what with the sheer amount of instances he'd snuck out, before he was caught, after all.

  
It was just after a visit to check in on Hagrid, Fang, Padfoot and Norbert the Still Unhatched Egg. He was padding through the Dungeons, the current entrance to the Slytherin Common Room in sight- a banner displaying the proud serpent of his House. Harry's backpack was ever-resting against his back, his Father's Invisibility Cloak nestled beneath the armada of books and parchment inside.

  
He's never been more grateful for having shed the Cloak as he is now.

  
Professor Snape is planted just inside the Common Room when the entrance cover flicks aside. The droop of the man's sweeping robes sag over his crossed arms; There's a definite maniacal gleam to his near-ebony gaze, beneath the simmering storm within them.

  
''Mr. Potter.'' The Potions Master drawls loosely. ''Out trapesing after curfew, are we not?'' He tsks. ''Believe yourself above your peers?''

  
''No, Professor, sir.'' Harry manages through the burdensome lump clogging his windpipe. Something sharp and volatile enters the man's gaze, before he's sharply gesturing for him to follow him with a flare of his robes. His back turned, the older doesn't notice the spectacled boy's full-body flinch at their proximity at the movement.

  
Harry's swift to stash his backpack in the nook behind the rack containing the prods for the fireplace, before following after his Head of House.

\--...--

  
''What were you thinking?!'' 

  
Harry only just contains a flinch in the face of his Captain's ire. Marcus hadn't even bothered to pull the First Year aside before practically shrieking his anger. The older is donned in his Quidditch gear, gloves and broom included. The handle in his grasp is clenched tightly between white-knuckled digits. His features are scrunched in painful-looking fury.

  
Harry can't quite ward off his long-born beaten instinct to evade as his body unconsciously steps back at the sixth year's steady progression. Unfortunately, his steps are matched stride for stride.

  
''What were you thinking?!'' Flint reiterates. ''Sneaking out after curfew, a First Year, next to the Forest to visit some old oaf, no less! You could've been killed! Locked out! Taken away by some Merlin-cursed beast! I thought you had more sense than this!''

  
A bubble of... something at the direct insult towards Hagrid forms a knot within Harry.

  
''You aren't a Gryffindor, Potter!'' Marcus bites between clenched teeth with intent to sting. ''Whatever complex you have needs to stop now, else I'll be forced to take your suggestion and kick you off this team. Did you ever stop to think about how your actions would look for this House? Slytherin already has a reputation, Potter, we don't need the actions of you fucking it up more...''

  
It's only years of Uncle Vernon's gleeful punishments that keeps Harry's stature carefully loose as to not appear in any way defiant, his features and mind carefully blank. Beyond his mental defenses, however, threatening to break free, he's seized by pure panic. He'd- naively- thought Hogwarts would be a bit different than the Dursley's. That, as Hagrid had said, it would be relatively more peaceful at the Safe Hogwarts.

  
And now, like everything else, he was going to pay for it.

  
He's, for the most part, numb to Marcus' spitting rage for the next several moments. Around them, the rest of the team watches the encounter with varying degrees of emotion: Sympathetic, amused... a smidgeon concerned over the First Year's vacant expression.  
''Flint.'' Adrian Pucey, Chaser for the team, speaks up. He casts Harry a wary glance, before returning to his fellow upperclassman. ''Lay off the kid. You've said more than your piece. And Snape already gave him detention.''

  
Impressively, Adrian doesn't so much as twitch as his Captain's enflamed gaze snaps in his direction. There's a moment where they seemingly share a silent conversation, before Flint reluctantly stalks away, muttering beneath his breath.

  
''To the sky!'' He barks over his shoulder. ''You too, Potter! You want to stay out after curfew, you can do laps until curfew, hurry up!"

  
\--...--

  
Draco Malfoy is waiting expectedly for him outside of Professor Snape's office. Harry blinks.

  
Their Head of House appears before either of them can speak. He regards Draco with an unimpressed, deadpan brow raise.

  
''Mr. Malfoy.'' He addresses. ''I don't seem to recall requiring your presence.''

  
''I'm out after curfew.'' The blond states evenly, almost diplomatically. There's a definite challenging gleam within his burnt charcoal gaze as he stares defiantly up at his godfather. ''Therefore, I'm deserving of detention, it would seem.''

  
The bat-like man's lip curls something unpleasant, promising vengeance at a later date, before he's leading them out of the Dungeon. Mr. Filch is there, an eerie yellow-tinted lantern in his grip, to meet them outside the entrance of the castle.

  
''A pity they let the old punishments die.'' The caretaker takes vicious pleasure in regaling the First Year duo as the three of them make way down the steep incline of the grounds. ''There was a time detention would find you hangin' by your thumbs in the dungeons. G*, I miss the screaming.'' 

  
A surge builds within Harry as the unmistakable outline of Hagrid's dimly-lit hut comes into view the closer they approach. There's an ounce of... something surrounding the aura of the half-giant's home, however. Aforementioned man is towering impatiently just outside the door of his wooden hovel, a mighty grasp clasped about a struggling Fang's collar, the other laid atop Padfoot's head in a stern bid to stay.

  
''You'll be serving detention with Hagrid tonight.'' Mr. Filch informs, halting several feet away from the groundskeeper in distaste. A smug sneer is cast in Harry and Draco's direction. ''You're going into the Forest, best have your wits about you.'' He turns to address the heighty other man clomping down onto level, grassy ground. ''A sorry lot these two, Hagrid.''

  
''The Forest?'' Draco chokes in a hint of a whisper off to Harry's side.

  
''Best watch yourself.'' Filch grins wickedly, showcasing gnarled yellow teeth. ''Nighty-night.'' He turns, the bob of his white-yellow lantern the only indication as to his returning up to the castle.

  
''Righ','' Hagrid casts Harry a significant glance, flickering between apology and the young Malfoy at the Potter's side. ''Bes' be off, then.''  
Fang, once released along their trek into the depths of the Forbidden Forest, immediately bounds over to Harry's side. He very nearly bowls the slight pre-teen over as he inserts himself in the gap between him and the blond trailing anxiously at his side. Padfoot immediately takes up post on his left. He nudges Harry's hand to rest between his furry shoulder blades.

  
Their journey is mostly filled with an eerie darkness during their march through the Forest. The only source of light is from the torch in Hagrid's grasp, the other burdened by the weight of his anticipatory crossbow, and the luminous tips of Draco and Harry's wands. None of which, in the thick gloom, provide much in the assistance of direction.

  
''Th's he'e 's what we're he'e fo'.'' Hagrid informs after a lengthy trek through the immense trees and cumbersome root-work. He stoops down to regard a gleaming pool of silvery liquid. ''See he'e? Tha's unicorn's blood, tha' is. Ah found one dead a few weeks ago. Now, th's one,'' he gestures towards the iridescence, ''we're lookin' fer now's injured bad by somethin'. So,'' there's a flicker of movement, gone just as soon as it's noticed, out of Harry's peripheral, ''it's our job ta find tha poor thin'.''

  
''Shall we spilt up?'' Harry offers, though there's an absolute tremor to the edge of his voice. ''Cover more ground that way.'' 

  
At the raven-haired boy's side, he notices Draco trembling ever-so-slightly at the suggestion. The blond seems to notice his body's betrayal, for he sniffs, pasting on a bit of infamous Malfoy Stuffiness immediately. Hagrid regards the, clearly petrified, pureblood oddly for a moment, shooting Harry a look.

  
''Alrigh'.'' The man yields at the raven's subtle nod. ''Ya two take Fang an' Padfoot.'' Draco noticeably droops at the source of protection.

''Jus' so's ya know, though, 'e's a bloody coward.''

  
Fang whines, petulant, proving his master's point.

  
''Mother is going to kill me when she hears of this.'' Malfoy mutters during their struggle walk through the Forest. ''I'll be done for. Eviserated...''

  
''I suppose you wonder why I would stoop to do something as- Did you hear that?'' Draco begins, most likely to fill the void of silence, only to cut off at a distant howl in the distance. Harry subtly nudges Fang closer to his fellow Slytherin, hoping to provide some form of comfort. The blond startles at the furry contact, though keeps the palm not clenched around his wand resting atop the boarhound damn his pride for reassurance. They continue.

  
There's a moderately flat plot of ground, compared to what they had seen thus far, up ahead what seems like hours later; It's merely filled with a cavernous bout of malicious roots strewn into the earth. There's glimmers of silver littering their path that steadily increase the closer they approach. It's only as Padfoot begins to emit a low, menacing growl that they see it.

  
The unicorn they are after is sprawled over the gnarl of roots in an unceremonious mess of limbs. Its legs are bucking helplessly in the air as a cloaked figure suckles greedily at the gash slashed across the side of the majestic creature's neck.

  
Draco is frozen in terrified, icy shock at Harry's side as the unknown stranger? creature? abruptly whips its head in their direction, an inhuman grumble escaping it. Padfoot is still growling, snarling, though it's steadily increasing in volume. Fang, true to Hagrid's word, is cowering against the petrified Malfoy- though, he's stood in front of the boy in what could be mistaken as a form of defense. Harry himself is a bit distracted as a dagger of agony flares within his lightning bolt-shaped scar.

  
Harry only just manages to shoot up bolts of scarlet in distress into the surrounding overhead trees of the Forest. The figure is steadily slinking forward, much resembling a snake. The Potter manages to shove Draco's quivering form behind him before he trips on one of the gnarly roots traversing across the dirt, wand knocked from his grasp to scatter across the ground, out of reach. The cloaked shadow is making continuous ground.

  
 _Clomp, clomp, clomp!_ come a smattering of rebounding foot-falls. Moments later, a figure breaks through the foliage; Mighty hooved legs kick at the cloaked silhouette. Beneath the onslaught, the figure is forced to retreat, disappearing amongst the thicket.

  
Harry manages to recover his wand, forcing himself to his feet through guidance from a hackled Padfoot. Though keeping a steady vigilance on their unexpected stranger, he casts a worried glance over towards Draco and Fang. The blond is still in the same position, body language locked tight, wand still grasped tight in his fist, and the boarhound standing before him in frightened semi-guard.  
In the ensuing glower of his raised wand, Harry is able to make out the stranger's form. Their upper half is human-like, however their lower torso is that of a stallion's legs.

  
''Harry Potter,'' the centaur address gravely, ''you must leave. You are known amongst many creatures here. The Forest is not safe at this time; Especially for you.''

  
''What-what was that thing?'' Harry is surprised to hear Draco's stuttering voice inquire. Though answering Malfoy, the centaur never removes his intense stare from Harry. Even as he moves to regard the fallen unicorn still lashing a few lagging kicks through the air.  
''A monstrous creature. It is a terrible crime to befall a unicorn.'' He bend at the waist, laying a sooth palm just below the fallen creature's majestic horn. ''Drinking the blood of a unicorn will keep you alive even if you are an inch from death. But at a terrible price.'' His features are pinched, even as the horse calms at his reassuring touch. ''You have wounded, or slain, something so pure that the moment the blood touches your lips, you will have a half-life. A cursed life.''

  
''But who would choose such a life?'' Harry dares to inquire. He's regarded with a heavy stare.

  
''Can you think of no one?''

  
_''First, and understand this Harry,'' Hagrid begins heavily after a moment, take a drag from his cup of tea.'''Cause it's very important. Not all wizards, or witches for that matter, are good. Some of them go bad.'' He explains. ''A few years ago, there was one wizard who went as bad as ya c'n go. An' his name was V-'' he stutters, ''...his name was V-...Voldemort.''_

  
_A green-hot light and a reverberating scream._

  
''That... that was Voldemort?'' Unlike when he'd spoken the dreaded name in the Leaky Cauldron, the centaur doesn't so much as even twitch. Instead, he nods. There's something indecipherable in his gaze.

  
''Harry Potter, do you know what is hidden in the school at this very moment?'' He seems dreadfully disappointed when the pre-teen merely shakes his head.

  
''The stars and planets have aligned for quite some time, regarding a tale. It's said to have one outcome, with two chances. For it to commence, there are actions yet to take place; If only one knows where to uncover its desire.''

  
'' _Harry!_ Malfoy!''

  
Hagrid's unmistakable bellow cancels anything further the half-man may have wished to elaborate. A moment later, the half-giant comes rumbling into view swifter than would be believed due to his mass. His crossbow is held aloft in front of him as he breaks through into the clearing. It lowers, though, at the sight that greets him.

  
''Hullo there, Firenze.'' Hagrid greets respectfully with a slight incline of his bushy head. ''I see you've met our young Harry.''

  
''Harry Potter,'' Firenze the Centaur gains all four of his lengthy legs. There's a significance within his stern gaze. ''This is where I leave you. You're safe, now. Good luck.'' Watching as he proceeds to gallop off, out of sight, Harry can't quite help but wonder over the hidden meaning enlaced within the statement.

  
''Ya alrigh' thare, Harry?'' Hagrid questions in heady worry. A glance is cast at a dissociative Draco Malfoy, muttering beneath his breath indiscernibly.

  
Harry nods, directing his gaze first at his fellow First Year, then towards the unicorn still laid across the ground. They hadn't much longer if there was any chance for the noble creature.

  
''Yes.'' He assures. "Though, I think Draco's in shock. The unicorn is just barely alive, Hagrid.''

  
''Right, then.'' The half-giant nods, discarding his crossbow off to his side as he proceeds to crouch before the horse, crooning soothingly as it stirs in fear. ''How many healin' charms have ya yet learned?''

  
It's after that unforgettable night, even through the remaining nine days of detention, that Harry makes certain to memorize and perfect as many healing spells as he can.

  
Fortunately, the unicorn lives to gallop along at its leisure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to, alright? The poor uni!
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoyed!
> 
> (Fun fact: I'm sort of coming close ish to finishing the second story!)


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I haven't been lacking for weeks, I have no idea what you're talking about.
> 
> So, um, yeah, I'm alive shockingly. Sorry about the delay. I won't offer excuses or further delay, though, so here's the new chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_**Chapter 27** _

Ever since the incident in the Forbidden Forest, Harry's scar had been nigh-excruciating.

  
Even with his high pain tolerance,- a gift via his relatives- it was difficult to even concentrate during his classes, and throughout the day period. If he wasn't always prompt to stay ahead of his work as he is, his grades would surely be suffering- on one of the final months before Summer, no less.

  
There was a bit of a panic commencing amongst his peers. Exams were swiftly approaching, after all, leaving all his fellow students scrambling to absorb as much last-moment information as possible. Harry had even noticed Hermione Granger, a wicked-brilliant Ravenclaw in his year, color-coding her personal study guides in the library one day. Along with berating Ron Weasley over his study habits- or lack thereof, rather.

  
All the teachers seemed to be nearly, if not just as, frazzled as their students. They were piling on the homework for each night. Which left Harry even more exhausted- between his attempting to divert his focus between assisting Hagrid with Egg-Norbert, finding information on one Nicholas Flamel, and Quidditch. His own personal information-gathering over protection charms,- via the thoughtful book from Draco Malfoy- and all else he could possibly cram into his frazzled mind, as well. What miniscule amounts of sleep he managed, though not often, was plagued by nightmares that left him struggling to drag himself through his days. Draco, eyeing his condition more often than not, had even offered to retrieve a Pepper-Up or Dreamless Sleep potion for him.

  
It went to show how haggard the Potter was that he even considered it.

  
Fred and George Weasley had, after the last disastrous Quidditch match against Hufflepuff that led to his four day stay in the Hospital Wing, since approached him. Harry had to hand it to them, they had wicked confrontational capabilities. They'd been completely respectful and aware of his boundaries, opting to approach him on the edge of the Quidditch pitch.

  
Captain Flint had been especially barking-mad over their next match. They were facing off against Gryffindor and, therefore, Marcus' rival: Oliver Wood, Captain of the lions. It was also the last game of the year, which would have a heavy influence over which House would be awarded the House Cup.

  
The sixth year was practically salivating over the award. Slytherin had won it for the last three years, after all. Professor Snape was also particularly desiring the placement. He'd been mugging Harry via eye-contact ever since his detention in the Forest. Professor McGonagall seemed particularly anxious for her own House to win the final match as well. She hadn't exactly been taking viscous pleasure out of taking whatever points possible from opposing Houses as Professor Snape had been, but she wasn't exactly holding back either.

  
Flint had practically been drilling them into the ground. Practice was held- just like before the match with Hufflepuff- everyday, along with occasional weekends, after classes had been held for the day. Which is where the twins had managed to corner him.

  
To his utter shock, they were swift to apologize. For their having been nigh-stalking him of late, and for Ron's jagged words in the Reference Section of the library- just how they were aware he'd heard, he didn't inquire. Despite them not being at fault in the first place, they requested to ''start over''. Complete with overdramatic deja vu ''Gred and Forge'' greeting.

  
Harry had been knocked for a bit of a loop during practice afterwards. Much to his Captain's loathing.  
Fortunately, though, during his frenzied hours of studying during the eve of night, Harry had managed to discover the name Hagrid had mentioned during his drunken confessions centered around Fluffy and Norbert. Humorously, he'd happened across the designation via one of the chocolate frogs Ron had gifted him with for Christmas- the card depicting a renowned witch or wizard included with each sweet, to be precise.

**_Albus Dumbledore,_ **

  
**_currently Headmaster of Hogwarts._ **

  
**_Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times,_ **

  
**_Professor Dumbledore is particularly_ **

  
**_famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Gridelwald in 1945,_ **

  
**_for the discovery of the twelve uses of_ **

  
**_dragon's blood and his work on alchemy_ **

  
**_with his partner Nicholas Flamel._ **

  
**_Professor Dumbledore_ **

  
**_enjoys chamber music_ **

  
**_and tenpin bowling._ **

  
Which is what lead to Harry finding the man, apparently an alchemist, in a particularly cumbersome book older than himself and nearly of the same weight.

  
_Nicholas Flamel is the only known maker of the Philosopher's Stone, an object capable of turning metal into gold and granting immortality with its Elixir of Life._

  
Harry's mind races, clicking pieces and clues together that he hadn't been able to previously.

  
\--...--

  
Harry, beneath the veil of the Invisibility Cloak, knocks stiffly at the wooden door planted before him.

  
There are numerous sounds about him in the gloom of night. Rustlings and alarming noises from the forest line off to his left and right, from about the corners and depths of the lake gleaming in the moonlight at his back. The _ **ruh-ruh ruh-ruh ruh-ruh**_ voice slipping through the barrier of the door.

  
Charlie Weasley had answered his letter, forwarding it directly to Harry. And had, graciously, fortunately, agreed to take Norbert. Which is what has lead to him chancing his Head of House and Potions Professor's infinite wrath.

  
''Back, Fang!'' Bids a distinct masculine voice from the opposing side of the entrance. A moment later, the door swings aside with a creak; Casting the towering, hairy silhouette in the doorway in slight shadow. Harry's ushered inside hurriedly.

  
'''E's all packed up, he is.'' Hagrid snivels slightly as he follows at a sedate pace. Atop the hand-crafted wooden table in the midst of the hut is a crate. Inside is an earthy-pigmented dragon egg swaddled within a horde of blankets in cushioning. '''Ve already said me goodbye. I knu ya need be heading out. Be careful out thare.''

  
\--...--

  
Padfoot attempts his level best to slink after Harry during his trek up to Ravenclaw Tower. 

  
Fortunately, Hagrid manages to notice before the towering, majestic canine has a chance to execute his plan. In a way, though, Harry yearns a bit for the dog's comforting presence. Though, it would be counterproductive, so he attempts his best to endure.

  
The climb to the very top of Ravenclaw Tower is steep and extensive. Combined with the weight of the crate cradled in his arms, as he makes way up the winding steps, makes it an even more cumbersome struggle. It weighs at _least_ near half his weight, combined with the hike...

  
Well, he manages only to nearly trip a total of twice, at least.

  
Charlie's friends are a rowdy bunch, the Potter learns. He'd shed his Cloak, tucking it out of sight, before approaching the edge of the Tower. He had mere moments to wait before the subtle sound of shifting wind gusts announces the arrival of the broom-riders. There wasn't much chance of talk or much pleasantries, for fear of being discovered, but he offers his gratitude nonetheless. Norbert's crate is secured between two of the hovering gents, before the group is dispersing into the gloom of night. Harry watches, admittedly for moments too lengthy, long after they're out of eye-sight, merely enjoying gazing up at the stars between drifting poufy clouds. Regarding the crescent moon beaming down at him, casting shadows about him.

  
It proves to be a fatal mistake on his part.

  
His body stiffens unconsciously when an abrupt hand clasps over the edge of his shoulder. The noirette doesn't even need to turn to know whom had discovered him. He can feel the waves of foreboding arcing off his back.  
''Fancy a midnight stroll, Potter? Or were we thinking of chancing our luck with the Tower's edge?'' Professor Snape's gleeful-malicious-ominous voice drawls unpleasantly. Harry doesn't dare speak. He's occupied with desperately quashing the voice mentally shrieking at him to break away from the man's sharp grip as he's paraded down from Ravenclaw Tower, into the lower Dungeons of Hogwarts Castle. It, painfully, hits a bit too close to home.

  
''I suppose you think yourself impervious to the rules, do you, Mr. Potter?'' Professor Snape sneers. He ~~drags~~ guides Harry into what must be his office, only releasing him to stand behind his desk. The First Year keeps himself carefully placed on the opposite side. His gaze, respectfully lowered, is resting on the wooden top of his Potions lecturer's desk. He can't help but full-body flinch when a palm slams down on the surface.

  
''I am here to assure you that no such matter is, in fact, correct.'' Professor Snape vows wickedly. ''I don't know what entirely sways you to believe that school rules are beneath you so, and I do not particularly care over what excuses you may possibly attempt. As the Head of House of Slytherin, I must say that,- if it were not a mere month from the end of the year; and your placement on My Quidditch team- you would be packing your bags and on your way home.'' Harry twitches, icy dread overwhelming him.

  
''As it stands, your actions cannot go unpunished. Fifty points taken, for your utter foolishness. I will also be making certain that at least one member of your Housemates will be escorting you back to your dorm after Quidditch practice. If it were, also, not so close to the end, I assure you that your former wishes to be cast from the team would be put into action.'' The younger is regarded in utter contempt. As if agreeing with anything regarding Harry is sacrilegious. ''Detention as well, Mr. Potter. On the days you do not have Quidditch practices. I will personally assure our dear groundskeeper of your foolish reasoning for not gracing him with your presence. Dismissed. Don't get lost.''

  
Harry's swift to obey, muttering a ''yes, Professor, sir,'' over his shoulder in farewell. There's a distinct gash residing in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him.

  
His Father's Invisibility Cloak, the last line to his procreator, discarded atop Ravenclaw Tower due to his own foolishness.

  
\--...--

  
Come the next morning, once Harry's Housemates notice the lost points and whom had been the reason for the decline, he's the outcast amongst his peers.

  
Marcus Flint had, after shouting him nearly into the earth itself, turned to completely giving him the cold shoulder- minus the minor instances he had to acknowledge his existence during or after practice during his days of escorting duty to the Common Room. The rest of his House tossed hatred-filled gazes in his direction at every possible moment. Which, due to the seemingly-constant attention about him, is a lot more often than of previous. Draco had yet to spare him a glance. The twins... well, they weren't Slytherin's. Even if they were empathetic to an extent.

  
Without the conceal of the Cloak, he's unable to do all he had been before. He couldn't wander the corridors at night. Couldn't use it to sequester himself off from the visible world when it became too much to merely be _visible_. Couldn't couldn't _couldn't_.

  
Although, admittedly, maybe Harry had been using it to his advantage too often. Maybe... maybe this was a sign that he'd abused the usefulness of the rogue gift. Maybe it wasn't even supposed to be deposited in his cupboard under the stairs. Maybe...

  
There were definite instances where he'd itched, _ached_ , to drag the drape of the fabric over his shoulders, to disappear from the accusation and _congratulations, Potter, for ensuring Ravenclaw our win!_ It was also difficult to retreat to the library to study, even the deepest depths. Stares and glares would follow him there as well. He couldn't bare to be in the dorm room, especially alone. Not even the Common Room felt secure anymore.

Hogwarts itself had formed into a mass of gloom that threatened to extinguish the raven's very insides. The one place he'd thought he could call... home. And he'd destroyed it, just as he made ruin of everything else. Perhaps it would have been for the best if he'd went freefalling over the edge of Ravenclaw Tower ~~where he'd left his Father's parting possession~~ after all.

  
And, worst of all, he couldn’t even visit Hagrid- and, therefore, Padfoot and Fang as well. It wore on him more than all the accusations, detentions, frantic studying, and Quidditch combined.

  
Basically, Harry had fucked up, to be utterly blunt.

  
—...—

  
Their match against Gryffindor proves to be their lengthiest yet. 

  
Flint is barking, raving, and pulling all the stops for their final game of the school year. Not even entirely due to it being their last match, but because of Oliver Wood, the Captain of their competitors. The leaders' rivalry, Harry had overheard, was practically infamous amongst the players.

  
The two upperclassmen had practically grappled, even before the match began, whilst sharing a sportsmanly handshake before the Quaffle was released to begin the game. After that had merely escalated. It seemed as though Captain Flint’s itinerary included _Pissing Off Oliver Wood as Much as Possible in One Game._

  
In the end, Harry manages to capture the Golden Snitch. It fills him with an elated burst of exhilaration, though it’s a bit dampened as well. It’s still most likely not enough to win the House Cup.

  
—...—

Exams arrive all too soon for Harry. And, seemingly, the rest of the school as well.

  
They’re, sensibly, a rather picky affair. Each test-taker is given an enchanted anti-cheating quill and vial of ink, and guided into the Great Hall to complete each of their exams. It lasts for a grand total of a week.

  
Without the adrenaline-pressure of Quidditch practice, though that doesn’t necessarily keep Harry from entering the pitch, he has more time to study and leisure periods in general. Though, that just means that his detentions are moved to weekdays; Which allows him chance to cautiously visit Hagrid and the dogs. He’d been slightly surprised at the opportunity, Professor Snape being aware of his visitations with the half-giant, but he wasn’t going to squander the chance.

  
Unfortunately, the noirette was quite unable to properly focus on his exams. His scar was agonizing in an uncomfortable-distracting way. He could only hope that he’d at least pass. Hopefully.

  
He wasn’t so certain at this point. He’d nearly gone blind from the pain on multiple occasions. Which also- if at all possible- also managed to worsen his already subpar manuscript...

  
Yes, his confidence over being allowed to continue on a grade was deteriorating with every lasting throb of his forehead.

  
The Potter, even through his frenzy-scrabbled condition and daily requirements, had still been studying intensively. He’d nearly perfectly mastered several locking charms,- which had been implemented on his trunk- along with numerous healing spells. He’d also been doing his research on Nicholas Flamel and the Philosopher’s Stone and, well...

  
He wasn’t feeling all too particularly confident over the matter. And with what he’d managed to gather along with it?

  
Well, he didn’t have the Invisibility Cloak, which meant that he- unfortunately- couldn’t check to make sure that Fluffy was still intact in his guarding of the trapdoor.

  
Harry wasn’t feeling all-too confident.

  
Combined with all he’d gathered, along with what Firenze had mentioned in the Forest, along with his scar blazing painfully...

  
Harry had made the decision to, after the finalization of exams, at least chance checking in on Fluffy.

Consequences be damned.

  
If any dark wizards or witches were, in fact, attempting to steal the Stone, then what would that mean for the Wizarding World, after all? The last time a malevolent wizard rose to power... Well, the tale wasn’t exactly entailed for impressionable audiences. 

  
And what of Hogwarts itself? All of the students within its walls that couldn't defend themselves properly...  
No. He had to do it. He had to ~~sneak off~~ make certain that the Stone was still well-protected.

  
After all, he couldn’t exactly entrust anyone else with the information he’d gathered. It would be a direct endangerment to one of his fellow students if he filled them in- not that they’d most definitely listen to begin with. And he’d long ago learned that informing an adult wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  
He could very well be kicked out of expelled from the next school year of Hogwarts, but, really, was that more important than the potential rise of a Dark?

  
Harry had ~~nothing~~ all to lose. And, yet, all to gain- if his instincts were offering him correct wisdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be gentle please. I'm fragile.
> 
> (The story that follows this one is kicking my ass ugh.)


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 3:23 am as I'm typing this. It's been a fucking shitty night and day so here's a chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

_**Chapter 28** _

  
The corridor was silent.

  
It seemed as though the entire castle was eerily bereft of noise as Harry slunk out of the Dungeons, up to the third floor. Miraculously, the raven had yet to run into any teachers,- exempting Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris; both of whom had been a vast distance down the hall at the time- but it was surely a mere matter of time. Blending into corners and shadows only lent so much seclusion, after all.

  
Due to his having to travel especially light and cautiously, it takes the Potter an uncomfortably-lengthy amount of time for him to trek up to the Forbidden corridor. Which could also lead to ~~Professor Snape~~ a teacher discovering him yet again breaking the law of curfew.

  
It was all for good reason, he kept reminding himself.

  
Fortunately, Fluffy is still standing guard over the trapdoor when he enters the Cerberus' allotted space. Unfortunately, however, there was the melodious twinkle of a harp,- playing off to the side of the spacey room- along with the echoing rumble of snores from the three-headed dog. Which meant...Which meant that the witch, wizard or creature after the Stone had already been through. Which meant that Harry was basically going into the situation blind. (Which also stood to reason that the scribbled writing of his potential farewell to the world may,- although a morbid endeavor broadcasted by a bout of absolute depressive episode- in fact, prove to be a worth-well investment.) Not that it mattered either way.

  
Harry gently slips the flute Hagrid had generously gifted him with for Christmas out of the pocket of his robes. He hadn't had much time in which to practice it, but what little he had combined with what he'd seen the man play should- hopefully- be at least half-way decent. So saying, he raises the wooden carving to his lips, and begins to play.

  
The noirette is dimly aware of the harp petering off in the distance as he inches ever-closer to where Fluffy is sprawled. It proves to be a monumental struggle to attempt to maneuver the monstrous paw laid protectively across the trapdoor; But, with a particularly nerve-inducing moment in which he's forced to pause in his music, the Potter manages nevertheless. The notes of his lyrics follow after him on his, after not even a moment of hesitance, way down the pitch expanse of the trapdoor.

  
There's several moments of sheer nothingness that remind him of his plummet during the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff- in which he'd been knocked asunder from his broom hundreds of feet up within the clouds. Then, a distinct, squashy contact of... something. He only has the barest of milliseconds to slip the flute into his robes, before his wrist is abruptly being seized in a damp, spindly grasp. 

  
He involuntarily flinches away as it seemingly only serves to prompt the invisible force, as it winds firmer over his appendage. There's also a distinct slither up his legs, to his waist, all the way up his thighs. It entraps his arms in place, limiting movement drastically. There's a thread that travels upwards to wrap about his neck, constricting like a serpent.

  
 _...Devil's Snare is deadly fun, but will sulk in the sun!_ He recalls from his studies. Devil's Snare: The plant that, when disturbed, will strangle all who disturb it to death. Unless...

  
It's a mighty bout of struggle and perspiration in order to reach his wand. The vines wrapped about him merely strengthen at his every movement. Oxygen is swiftly decreasing with every... mo... ment...

  
_''Lumos Solem!''_

  
Harry's voice escapes in a heady choke through both the constriction and lack of use, but it proves enough. He's, yet again, succumbed by free-fall, before thudding against something solid. There may be a _crack_ of one of his limbs, but the First Year is already otherwise preoccupied with attempting to gain his footing to pay it any mind. He's off through the dimly-lit gloom a moment later.

  
There's a distinct _thwip-thwip_ the closer Harry approaches what proves to be a door. His spectacled orbs blink, vision struggling to cope with the sudden influx of light, as he shoves the wooden entrance open.

  
There are hundreds of... he's not even certain fluttering high above that greets him. He squints at the astounding sight. Even with his lack-luster, even with his limited specs, he can tell they aren't birds. They're... keys. To the door on the opposing side of the room, the youngster predicts. But how was he to find which would fit? He could possibly, in mere theory, _windgardium leviosa_ \- levitate- himself into the air, but that was no guarantee. And would leave him relatively vulnerable due to the level of concentration that would be required...

  
 _There's a broom discarded just off to his right._ He could nearly slap himself for his idiocy.

  
The broom obeys his whim, nearly launching upwards into his palm, before he's mounting the handle and shooting upwards into the air. It's similar to the broom stick he'd rode in flying lessons in Madam Hooch's class. Which means that it's a vast difference from his own Nimbus 2000. Flying is flying all the same to him, however, which allows him to kick off from the ground easily.

  
Immediately, it's as if Harry is participating in a match of Quidditch. There's the impromptu bludgers soaring in his direction with distracting, malicious intent. They make his progression through the air, and therefore in attempting to soar through all the fluttering glimmers, exceedingly difficult. However, through the bee-like swarm and _bzzzz_ , he's only just able to catch sight of a particular key. It's just on the border of all the other fliers, dipping messily in intervals, as if it's wing had nearly been clipped. The dark-haired pre-teen is swooping before he's aware of his own actions.

  
He jerks the handle upright at the last moment, bare feet from the unforgiving floor below, sweeping upwards sharply, gracefully. The damaged key has no chance of escape as he closes in. He's out of the room, the distinct _thud-thud-thud-thud-thud_ of the remaining influx of keys compacting with the sealed door behind him.  
The next obstacle, once the lights flicker in increase, proves to be a life-size board of Wizarding Chess. He sends mental gratitude towards the Weasleys for teaching him as he mounts his position, corresponding figures piecing about him.

  
He's coated by a vast layer of dust, dirt, porcelain, and miscellaneous cuts and scrapes from rogue flying shards by the time he's able to safely exit the match. It was definitely Wizards Chess, as proven by the stacks of shattered pieces and granite players laid off to the side of the board. He's swift to hurry along, however.

  
There's, to Harry's surprise, no other obstacle when he enters the next door. His scar, however, opts to send a sharp jab of pain through his forehead. There's a man planted, below a steep incline of steps, before a familiar golden-framed mirror. A gent with ebony robes, a dusty purple turban...

  
''Not surprised, Potter?'' Professor Quirrell states. It's not with his atypical stutter, though. No, it's nonexistent, replaced with... a blank mechanical lilt. Like that of a puppet echoing its puppeteers bidding.

  
''I had so hoped you would believe in Snape being the type. He does seem the sort, doesn't he?'' Quirrell muses aloud. His gaze never falters from the mirror in front of him. ''Next to me, who would expect ''p-p-poor s-stuttering Professor Quirrell?'' He adopts his former stunted speech pattern.

  
''That day at the Quidditch match, that was you?'' Harry more states than inquires. He's still standing atop the towering landing leading down the staircase.

  
''Yes, dear boy, _I_ tried to kill you! And, trust me, I would have been successful if not for Snape and that foolish Head of Gryffindor half-blood slowing your fall.''

  
''I knew,'' Quirrell continues viciously, ''you were a danger right from the off. Especially after Halloween.''

  
''The troll?'' Harry questions, though he already knows.

  
''I let the disgusting creature in, yes. Very good, Potter. Snape, unfortunately, wasn't fooled.'' The man's lip curls in disgusted distaste. ''While everyone else was running to the Dungeon, he went to the third floor to head me off. He, of course, never trusted me again.'' The ire within the former-Professor's voice raises momentarily.

  
''He never left me alone. But he doesn't understand. I'm never alone.'' A thread of what may be... fear enters the elder's tone. ''Never. Now...'' Dark, hungry eyes rake over the vast expanse of the Mirror of Erised. ''What does this mirror do? I see what I desire. I see myself holding the stone. But how do I get it?''

  
_''Use the boy.''_

  
Harry's skin positively crawls as a wispy, disused voice consumes the space. Quirrell rounds on Harry madly.  
''Come here, Potter, now!'' The man bellows. Harry stays stubbornly rooted in place, despite the fire roaring within the man's eyes- his very, jerky, movements.

  
Unfortunately, there's a staticky feeling that spreads down Harry's slight form, before his body is abruptly lumbering heavily down the stairs in a way he'd never voluntarily be able to accomplish. He's, without physicality, man-handled in front of the Mirror.

  
''Tell me, what do you see?'' The turban-clad man demands, the thinnest thread of desperation in his voice.  
Instead of the smiling, reassuring presence of his mother and father, the Potter heir sees... himself. Green gaze is locked with green gaze, before another figure suddenly steps up to his double's left side, dark fur ghosting against the edge of the droop of his robes.

  
Padfoot's burnt-charcoal orbs bore into his own from the glass. Harry finds himself oddly entranced by the canine, a pang of longing thumping within his core at the thought of his own legitimate companion; Safely prancing about the grounds surrounding Hagrid's hut.

  
Before Harry's spectacled, emerald gaze, the massive dog nudges against Mirror-Harry's closest pocket; Harry doesn't dare so much as twitch as an abrupt weight drops into his own.

  
''What is it?! What do you see?!'' Quirrell demands at his back. Harry offers the quickest half-truth he can possibly think up.

  
''My parents. Congratulating me on making the Qudditch team.'' He bluffs.

  
''No, what do you see?!'' Quirrell roars, a smidge shakily.

  
'' _Let me speak to him._ '' The raspy voice states. It's not a request, merely a demand.

  
''Master, you're not strong enough.'' Not-Professor Quirrell insists, turning off to the side slightly as one would when speaking with someone directly. There's a trembling-undercurrent of anxiety laced within his very body language.

  
_''I have strength enough for this.''_

  
Harry's forced to view, icy dreaded-horror slithering down his spine, as Quirrell slowly, deliberately, begins to unwrap the turban wound about his cranium. With each unwind, the young Potter's scar throbs, escalating in pressured-pain. There's a brief moment.

  
Harry stumbles backwards as the Mirror offers dreaded reveal.

  
There's a... a _face_ residing on the back of his former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's head. It's gnarled and rather serpent-like, lacking a nose as well. Two piercing red eyes _~~a~~ ~~ _green_ -hot light and a reverberating scream~~_ peering at him haughtily.

  
'' _Harry Potter._ '' The bodiless form spits, rasps. Professor Quirrell's body twitches unnervingly, as if struggling against the urge to tremble. '' _We meet again._ ''

  
''Voldemort.'' Harry states levelly. Shrewd red orbs sharpen at the bold address.

  
'' _Yes,_ '' the Dark Lord practically hisses, rather snake-like. He seems rather perversely pleased at the mere use of his name. '' _You see what I have become? See what I must do to survive? Live off another.''_ ' His host wavers a bit in place on his feet. '' _A mere parasite. Unicorn blood can sustain me, but it cannot give me a body of my own. But there is something that can. Something that, conveniently enough, lies in your pocket!''_

  
Harry hastily backs away, towards the majestic staircase. He doesn't dare turn his back. Which, unfortunately, hinders his maneuverability.

  
'' _Stop him!_ '' Voldemort roars.

  
Quirrel snaps his fingers at the demand, and immediately there's the roaring-flicker of red-orange as flames engulf the corners, and therefore available exits, of the room. The now entrapped First Year swears he can hear a voice through the veil, however unintelligible.

  
'' _Don't be a fool!_ '' Voldemort barks. '' _Why suffer a horrific death when you can join me and live?!''_

  
''Never!'' Harry declares. This is the man who was the reason and purpose of so many deaths during the War. He was the reason Harry's parents were no more. He was his parents' murderer. He would **never** listen to the man's, if he could even be referred to as such, tyranny.

  
There's a sickening hacking of what's likely supposed to be a mimicry of mirth. '' _Bravery. Your parents had it too.'' A green-hot light and a reverberating scream. ''Tell me, Harry, would you like to see your mother and father again?''_ The snake-like non-man appeals. _''Together, we can bring them back.''_ Behind Voldemort's distinct features, the pre-teen's parents' forms appear in the mirror. They're... wrong, somehow, though. Stiff, rigid. There's a hint of a smile on their features, but it's plastic in design; Fake. There's also no welcoming presence of Padfoot between them.

  
'' _All I ask for in return,_ '' Voldemort continues faintly in the background. There's no denying what the tyrant desires. ''There is no good and evil. There is only power- and those too weak to seek it. Together, we'll do extraordinary things.'' An unhinged quality enters the Dark Lord's tone of voice. '' _Just give me the **stone**!_" The false mimicry of his parents flickers out of existence.

  
'' ** _Liar_**.'' Harry practically curses, vehemently.

  
'' _KILL HIM!_ '' Voldemort orders.

  
Harry attempts to evade, but his actions prove to be too delayed. He's knocked off his feet, to the unforgiving solidity of the stairs below. There's a hand wrapped about his neck, restricting rich, delicate airflow. Quirrell's features snarl down at him, a flicker of driven-fear in his loathing gaze. Harry, with the only available arm not currently being pinned at an unnatural angle beneath him, struggles to grasp for the pocket containing the Philosopher's Stone.

  
Harry strains as the man's free grasp entraps his own questing one desperately. However, the older is swift to break away from the contact with a cry of unadulterated pain. The Potter's glasses had been knocked asunder across his features, however, which leaves him half-blind. 

  
He releases a choked exhale of relieving air as the firm hand wrapped about his windpipe abruptly vanishes. His spectacles are righted in time, opposite hand fisted protectively about the Stone in his robes, to gain proper view of his former Professor.

  
Quirrell is still shrieking, watching in horror as his hand deteriorates into dust before his very eyes.

  
''What is this magic?!'' The man cries.

  
 _''Fool!_ Get the stone! _''_

  
Quirrell abidingly stumbles forward, reaching outwards towards Harry. However, the boy, anticipating the action, raises his free palm in feeble warning. The adult staggers ever-closer. Harry lashes out, connecting with the host's features. Quirrell stumbles backwards with an animalistic cry.

  
Harry watches in horror as the man's entire head begins to crumble before his very gaze, descending down the man's body rapidly. There's one last desperate advance on the youngster, but the gent disintegrates at the movement, wafting about to the floor below. The Stone is still enclosed within his white-knuckled grasp.  
There's a warbling, enraged cry as a tangible depiction of Voldemort banks from Quirrell's ashy form, directly towards Harry. There's no time for him to break away, the Dark Lord lashes against him. A minimal cry is ripped waveringly from Harry's lips as he compacts harshly with the rocky landing of the stairs, his cranium smacking against the marble.

  
Dark threatens the edges of the Potter's vision, enclosing swiftly. The Stone is still in his grasp; _Safe._ An overwhelming abundance of released quashes what remaining consciousness Harry possesses.

  
'' _Harry!_ '' He can only dimly hear, before the darkness rushes over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Fun fact: I finished the story after this one! Editing is kicking my ass, though.)
> 
> Note: I need a fucking nap.


	33. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this story. I fucked the thing up somehow sorry.
> 
> Bad headspace rn. Sorry.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

_**Chapter 29** _

  
Harry awakes in an abrupt jerk upright, gasping from the plague of night terrors that threaten to follow him.

  
His surroundings are alarmingly blurry when he manages to pry his eyelids into motion. The black-haired boy nearly falls over the side of the bed, if not for the firm, but careful, palm that manages to right him just in time. A blob extends his glasses, which he's swift to shove on. The Potter blinks as his surroundings proceed to swim into dawning focus. To his absolute surprise, it appears as though they'd been repaired. There are no cracks, no scrapes or scratches across the fragile lenses.

  
He's in the Hospital Wing. There's the distinct cool, pungent tang of antiseptic lingering within the air. A line-up of tidy beds stand at sentinel attention on either side of him, along with across the aisle. There's a definite heft of fabric laid over his lap. Along with a calloused palm, which is swift to remove itself seeing that he's stable atop the plump mattress.

  
There's a half-hazard stack of items strewn about the entire top of the table off to the side of his bed: Candy, trinkets, and all walks of desirables. Beside it, there's a distinct droop of purple robes, leading up into a kind, white-bearded face.

  
''Good afternoon, Harry.'' Professor Dumbledore greets softly. As if afraid of unsettlingly the Potter heir or, more likely, incurring Madam Pomfrey's formidable ire. The older male directs his twinkling gaze to the jumble of treats that'd caught Harry's eye the moment before. A smile flickers beneath a tangle of ivory whiskers. ''Ah. Tokens from your admirers.''

  
''Admirers?'' Harry nigh-croaks. His disbelieving voice is as hoarse as when he hadn't spoken for weeks, if not months, at the Dursley residence.

  
''What happened down in the Dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret,'' the elder man pauses for the barest of moments, a thread of mirth entering his voice. ''So, naturally, the whole school knows.''

  
''Sir...'' Harry hesitates. He'd been taught to **never** inquire of ~~everything~~ anything not within his right. Despite Hagrid, Fred and George's coaxing that they, and a vast majority of others, wouldn't be angered if he's to ask anything, it's already engrained within him. Professor Dumbledore, luckily,- if a bit unnervingly- seems to read his mind.

  
''Relax, dear boy.'' He sooths. Harry fights a flinch at the endearment. Enraged purple walrus-esque features flash terrifyingly across his vision, a distinct meaty fist swinging wildly. _**''Boy!''**_ Uncle Vernon roars within his mind's eye.

  
''The stone has been destroyed.'' The Headmaster assures.

  
Sure enough, there's no foreign heft on his person, no biting-edge of gemstone biting into Harry's digits. It doesn't assure him, however.

  
''My friend Nicholas and I had a little chat and agreed it was best all around.''

  
''But Mr. and Mrs. Flamel, sir,'' Harry manages. He shifts to be in a more directly-upright postion on the bed, uncomfortable with the man- though involuntarily- towering over his vulnerable form. He's able to easily ignore the pangs from his pained body. The beard-clad man appears as though he wishes to protest the movement, though opts to continue with his explanation instead.

  
''Nicholas and his wife, Perenelle, have enough Elixir to see his affairs in order. But, yes, they will die.''

  
''How...'' Harry shallows the lump clogging his throat burdensomely. ''How is it I got the Stone, Professor, sir?''

  
''Ah.'' The elder man seems undoubtedly pleased with the inquiry. He settles primly into the seat across from the bed Harry's occupying, brushing aside the rogue items placed there. ''You see, only a person who wanted to find the Stone- find it, but not use it- would be able to obtain it. That is one of my more brilliant ideas.'' The Headmaster winks humorously. ''And, between you and me,'' he leans forward slightly, conspiratorially, ''that's saying something.''

  
''Voldemort?'' Harry blurts. A grave expression creases the Headmaster's features. It makes him appear thousands of years older, wearier.  
''Ah, I'm afraid that there are ways in which he can return.'' Professor Dumbledore informs gravely, misreading Harry's question. He regards his student ponderingly for a moment.

  
''Harry, do you know why Professor Quirrell couldn't bear to have you touch him?'' The raven-headed pre-teen shakes his head, shaggy locks swaying half-hazardously with the movement. A dawning smile spreads across Professor Dumbledore's features.

  
''It was because of your mother. She sacrificed herself,'' overwhelming guilt slams into the Potter with all the subtly of an oncoming freight train petering at full-mast, ''for you; And that kind of act leaves a mark.''

  
Harry presses a hesitant hand against the lightning bolt-shaped scar plaguing his forehead, beneath the droop of his unruly ebony locks. ''No, no,'' the Headmaster shakes his head gently, ''this kind of mark cannot be seen. It lives in your very skin.''

  
''Love, Harry, love.'' The Professor near-whispers, as if a sacred secret, after a searching moment. Shrewd blue orbs regard Harry's features for a few moments, but they're carefully shifted into an expression on indifference. Inside, however, Harry is drowning within his own mind. Professor Dumbledore stands, pausing ponderingly over the stack of sweets, treats, and trinkets splayed atop the bed-side table.

  
''Ah, Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans.'' He regards. ''I was most unfortunate in my youth to come across a vomit-flavored one; And since then I have lost my liking for them.'' Harry nods. The movement expresses his permission to indulge, if the older male has desire to do as such.

  
''But,'' the beard-clad man hesitates slightly, hands reaching and retreating in cautious contemplation, ''I think I could be safe with a nice toffee...'' A dark, earth brown bean is extracted from the contents of the colorful boxing.

  
''Mm.'' The Headmaster winces slightly, chewing sluggishly. ''Alas. Earwax.'' Harry's features scrunch up slightly in shared distaste.

  
\--...--

  
It takes a mighty bit more convincing, patience, and listening on Harry's part before Madam Pomfrey even ponders over allowing the young Potter to be submitted from the Hospital Wing.

  
Draco, Fred, and George had, to his utter shock, dropped in to check on him. They, in their own subtle ways, fussed over him. Mrs. Weasley- and, therefore, Ginny- had even inquired about his condition over the twins' two-way mirror Harry had gifted each Weasley with for Christmas. Then immediately laid into him with a light, concerned scolding for his rashness in confronting all involved with the Stone. Draco had also warned that he should undoubtedly expect a letter from the blond's mother, Narcissa, with similar sentiments.  
The young Potter could say with utter certainty that he was weary of such information. His fellow First Year, perhaps seeing such, had assured him that she wasn't angry or disappointed, merely concerned. Which only served to confuse the poor ebony-haired boy.

  
Harry was also informed that Draco was a reason he'd been found down in the Dungeons. The blond had taken notice of his sneaking out of the dorms and followed him. He'd then rushed off to Professor Snape after realizing what, who to be exact, resided on the Third Floor- along with Harry's running head-long into aforementioned room, with aforementioned slumbering Cerberus.

  
As it was after curfew, the middle of the night to be exact, Draco had very-nearly earned a detention for the remainder of the school year, but only just managed to convince his godfather of Harry's whereabouts.

  
Their shared Head of House, apparently, wasn't all that thrilled to learn that one of his snake's- especially his most despised- had ventured out on rather Gryffindor-like terms.

  
The Potions teacher had, apparently, crossed paths with Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore along his way to the Third Floor. They'd rushed with him down to the Dungeons, only to discover Harry, laden with wounds, sprawled across the stairs before the Mirror of Erised. Professor McGonagall, so Harry had heard, had thought him to be deceased, what with his critical condition.

  
Hagrid also visited Harry on his final day in Hospital. The amiable half-giant had taken one look at his fragile form, laid up in bed- a pile of gifted treats and trinkets at his bedside and the creature book the man had personally gifted him with laid across his lap- and promptly broke down into alligator tears. The painful image had seared itself into Harry's vision ever since, surely adding to his ever-expanding list of night terrors.

  
Harry was swift to assure the towering man that _yes, he's fine, Hagrid. No, it's it is Not your fault. He's the one that had taken it upon himself to face Voldemort._ Which, if a bit predictably, only made the man flinch at the dreaded designation. It'd seized the man's tears, however, to the raven's relief.

  
Hagrid also informed the Potter, of which he'd yet to learn, that Padfoot had escaped when he'd went down in the Dungeons to face the obstacles that inevitably lead him to the Mirror of Erised. At Harry's alarm, Rubeus had been quick to assure him that it was merely to sneak into the castle. Apparently, the overly-large canine had been the first one on the scene when finding Harry unconscious. The overly-large dog had made it near-impossible to usher the Potter off to Madam Pomfrey, barking and snarling at any and all that gained too close proximity.

  
Harry was initially worried over Hagrid getting in trouble over Padfoot's intrusion into the school, but it was relatively renowned that the canine was Harry's companion and, therefore, not technically Hagrid's responsibility- even if the canine did remain with him.

  
(Padfoot had also snuck into the Hospital Wing to lay with Harry on his final over-night stay to lay reassuringly pressed against his side. If Madam Pomfrey was aware of such fact, she didn't let it be known. She had, however, given the First Year an extended scolding for his brash, foolish actions.)

  
\--...--

  
On the final day of school at Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry makes the decision to actually, uncharacteristically, attend the dinner feast in the Great Hall.

  
Draco had a spare seat beside him that Harry, after only a moment of hesitation, slipped into. Whether the arrangement was purposeful or not, he has no proof. Nevertheless, he's- surprisingly- in relatively good spirits either way.

  
Not to discount the corrosive mass of **fear** and **anxiety** festering within his innards at the _tick tick ticking_ reminder that he would soon, the next day in fact, be returning to the Dursely's. Nor the fact that the unmistakable blue and bronze of Ravenclaw House was strewn up all about the Great Hall, signifying the eagles' win of the House Cup. The serpent is on a bit of high over the exhilaration that he'd managed high scores on his exams. (Not at the top of his year, that title was reserved to one Hermione Granger, closely followed by Draco Malfoy.) No, he wasn't going to dwell on the negatives, for once, on his remaining day at Hogwarts. At his _home._

  
Professor McGonagall taps primly against the glass of her goblet just before the start of the feast. All the students from each and every House are seated at their allotted tables, each wearing pointed hats and expectancy. Nearly at once, the chatter that had been circumventing about the vast Hall peters out. Professor Dumbledore, dressed as always in his notorious purple robes, rises from his gleaming golden seat at the Head Table.

  
''Another year has gone.'' The bearded man proclaims cheerily. ''And now, as I understand it, the House Cup needs awarding,'' he clasps his palms together expectantly.

  
''The points stand thus: In fourth place, Slytherin with 312 points.'' Harry is amongst the few of his fellow snake's whom clap. His gaze remains unwaveringly focused on the Headmaster, evading the features of his Housemates purposefully. ''Third place, Hufflepuff, with 352 points.'' Each table claps politely for the black and yellow House, though Harry is one of a bare few at his table whom deems to. ''In second place, Gryffindor, with 426 points.'' Another smattering of applause.

  
''And,'' Professor Dumbledore concludes, ''in first place, Ravenclaw, with 472 points.'' Raucous cheers sound from the table of blue and bronze. To Harry's surprise, however, Fred and George Weasley aren't among them. Instead, they're each merely clapping.

  
George, catching his gaze across the numerous bobs of hat-covered heads, offers him a knowing wink. Of what, Harry isn't certain.

  
''Yes, yes. Well done Ravenclaw, well done Ravenclaw.'' There's an unspoken, though depictable 'but' echoing after the Headmaster's tone.

''However,'' he pauses, allowing the room to settle, ''recent events must be taken into account. And I have a few last minute points to award.'' Twinkling blue orbs turn towards Harry, picking him out amongst his fellow Slytherin's without even a grain of difficulty. Harry freezes a bit as the rest of the room's attention follows.

  
''For the use of cool intellect in moments of great peril, I offer fifty points.'' Down the table, Harry hears Marcus Flint make a strangled noise, as if having an abrupt realization dawned upon him. ''Second, for the best-played game of chess that Hogwarts has seen these many years... Fifty points.''

  
''And, third,'' Harry dares meet those warm sky-blue eyes for the briefest of moments. As such, he sees the smile stretch across Professor Dumbledore's features, from beneath the fur of his beard. ''For pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Mr. Harry Potter, and Slytherin House, fifty points.''

  
''We've tied with Ravenclaw!'' Blaise Zabini enthuses from across the table.

  
''And, finally,'' Professor Dumbledore continues, ''for the bravery and commitment it takes in which to assist those we consider friends, to Draco Malfoy, thirty points.''

  
There's a bare pause, before the Slytherin table abruptly breaks out into an outcry of cheers, clapping, and delight. Harry finds himself unendingly stunned at the sheer volume that he, _He_ had been able to gather for his House.

  
Draco, at his side, has a distinct pink tinge to his cheeks, though seems pleased at their win otherwise. Down the table, Marcus Flint appears to be on the verge of tears, though is vehemently denying them.

  
''Assuming my calculations are correct,'' Professor Dumbledore speaks up, with what could quite possibly be an ounce of cheek, ''I believe that a change of decoration is in order.'' With a sweeping of his palm, the blue and bronze banners depicting an eagle are replaced by a green and silvery serpent.

  
''Slytherin wins the House Cup!'' The bearded man proclaims through the volume of noise and movement as celebration erupts, pointed hats being cast into the air in a flurry of rippling fabric.

  
At the Head Table, Harry catches sight of a dismayed, though smiling, Professor McGonagall clasping hands in a firm, congratulatory shake with Professor Snape. The Head of Gryffindor manages to catch his eye, nodding. Harry also makes the mistake of catching his own Head of House's attention, and vows to do his best to avoid the man in the hours remaining of the school year.

  
\--...--

  
The follow day is, admittedly, a bit bitter-sweet.

  
Harry had spent the previous evening and night with Draco in preparation for the oncoming Summer. That morning, he spent with Fred, George, and Ron Weasley- the latter of whom, to his shock, had approached him to apologize for his harsh words back in the library so long ago.

  
Harry had also spent the entirety of the night restlessly packing and making certain he had all his belongings gathered. He had also already sequestered everything he couldn't chance bringing along into the abandoned classroom his trunk had resided in for quite some time when Harry still had access to the Cloak. Hefty class and personal books, spare ink and quills, etcetera were stored away- his Nimbus 2000 also among them. He'd only packed the bare essentials: Sweets and treats he'd already had in his possession from December, along with what had been left for him in the Hospital Wing, along with the creature book from Hagrid, were all sequestered within the containment box Draco had gifted him with. Along with the homework for the Summer he hadn't been able to complete.  
Also, that morning when Harry had actually deemed to enter the dormitory in order to make certain that he hadn't forgotten anything, he'd found a neatly-folded bundle on his bed. He'd nearly had a heart attack to find his Father's seemingly infinitely-lost Invisibility Cloak.

  
The remainder of Harry's final day at Hogwarts before the Summer was spent on the grounds surrounding Hagrid's hut. They shared bits and bobs of conversation,- mostly one-sided on the man's part- Harry roamed and ran with Padfoot and Fang.... It was one of the most splendid times in the raven's young life.

  
Hagrid, the saint he is, had also volunteered to take in and care for Padfoot during the three months until the next school year, if Harry wanted. The groundskeeper had been a bit hesitant in his offer, the over-sized canine being Harry's companion after all, at first, but calmed a bit when Harry graciously accepted, offering his profound thanks. After all, Padfoot would be well taken care of in the half-giant's formidable hands. And wouldn't have to roam aimlessly about the streets.

  
No, Harry didn't mind; He was relieved. That at least of the two of them, that Padfoot would be given the dedication he deserved, that the young Potter couldn't himself grant under the reign of the Dursley abode. Even if it saddened him a bit that he wouldn't be able to see the canine for the next three months.

  
The time leading up to and during boarding the Hogwarts Express was a surreal, near out-of-body experience for Harry. Hagrid was there to see off all the students, and Harry, on a whim, managed to cast aside his adversity of touch long enough to give the half-giant a departing hug. It wasn't, and would never be, sufficient enough to repay the man for his generosity over the last several months, but it was a landmark nonetheless.

  
Draco also sat with him throughout the ride on the freight as well. Though, the blond hadn't been particularly thrilled to be joined not long after by Fred, George and Ron Weasley. Though tried his level best to painstakingly swallow his adversity for Harry's sake.  
Despite the amount of squabbles and overwhelming chatter throughout the trek on the train-ride to King's Cross Station, Harry felt more at peace than he could've ever imagined.

  
There were numerous uncertainties lying ahead throughout the future forebodingly, but he would do his level best ~~assuming he survived the Summer.~~

  
If Harry James Sirius Potter did, indeed, manage to continue on into his Second Year, he positively couldn't _not_ wait to try out the map Fred and George had gifted him with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not posting on the next story due to shitty mental health. If something happens I don't want you all to be left on a cliffhanger.
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking along for this story. It means the world.
> 
> (Update 1-10-21: The first chapter of the second story Has been posted.)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter lengths will vary, apologies. Haven’t wrote for awhile until lately and structure is kicking my ass 🤦🏻♀️.
> 
> Hope you took some semblance of enjoyment out of this :)
> 
> (P.S.: Updates will most likely be erratic, apologies.)


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